Call to Arms
by TheBatKid
Summary: Dorian Pavus meets someone he never thought existed. His son, Fareld, comes with a plea to the Inquisitor to save his homeland from destruction. But Fareld shows much animosity towards his father, and it will be up to Dorian to help save Tevinter, and win the respect of his son.
1. All Thunder over Peaceful Plains

**Call to Arms**

Across the planes of a sleepy world, lands of hills stood silent, the guardians and vanquishers all asleep. The bears and birds had fallen weary and wolves skulked in shadows made denser by the moon, which now hung in the sky as an angelic messenger, and destroyer too. Its glow gave guide to travellers who walked the woods at night, but yet so did it lend hand to predators to make a meal of them, and in its winking silver stars it had a consortium of followers to do its bidding.

The land itself was quiet, save for the snarl of a creature as its jaws clamped around its meal, and the victorious yelp of another escaping Fate. It was in this that campers slept. Their tents were scattered, and though they avoided high hills – bandits were a thriving disease there – they braved the dangers enough to bring cattle with them, of which were guarded by night watchmen and the bolder clans of farmers.

And it was in this ethereal peace that Fareld thundered across the plane.

His horse was jet black, and he like a herald brought nothing with him but his bow, arrows and a tattered knapsack. In it, he held a document more important than the air he breathed. All he wore were modest traveller's clothes – a black ensemble of trousers and shirt, topped with a hooded cloak for comfort and convenience.

He had travelled the far reaches of Ferelden now for near on two months; in that time, his pain had grown, his hatred festered, and his skin stayed warm against the chill for the raging inferno inside him, anger boiling blood once aflame with passion.

Had he made the right decision? He was told by the Tevinter Magisters, no. But what else was he to do? Watch as they burned and die without a fight? That was far too docile for him.

The campers watched as Fareld's stallion galloped past, leaving in its wake the impressions of hooves, and throwing up clumps of soil. So ominous was his form that they fancied they might see an entire army running after him. But, soon enough, peace was restored, the lad was gone, and the moon once more beamed down to soothe their qualms, promising them in silent routine that the sun would shine brightly the next day.

He had visited Orlais, but the city bore no fruit. Tevinter be damned, it was a beautiful enough city, with colourful explosions that doubled as artwork, statues so grand they were almost decadent, and bright hues on the walls, windows and doors. There were even golden door handles in the higher-end shops. He knew the Imperium itself was seen as an immodest place where magic, prohibited or no, was practiced without restraint, but Orlais was so exotic to him he was almost tempted to extend his trip.

_Now is not the time for leisure,_ he chastised himself as in one leap, his horse cleared a mound of dirt and continued its thundering journey: _Lives are at stake. Do you want to see the Imperium destroyed?! Hasn't there been enough death?_

There were few places to search. Farmyards could give little information, the villages less so, and no matter where he went it seemed he was always one step behind, always being told that they had been there some weeks earlier, but had since moved on.

_For a man who doesn't even know I exist, he's wonderful at avoiding me, _Fareld thought. He did not deign to say his name. It would leave a bitter taste on his tongue, rather like poison, and as he had so often heard his mother spit it as if it were profanity he had learnt it to be an ugly word.

But still – the man was his father, and he had nowhere else to turn.

It was just as the moon began its descent that he rounded a mountain corner, and felt something sharp penetrate his calf.

With a whinny of fear, his horse sped up, and in its terror it threw him from its back, tossing him up into the air and down, where he was rolled into a heavy, hard boulder. With quick hands, Fareld equipped his bow. The searing pain in his calf he ignored: It was an arrow, he could tell, and he would deal with it when he'd killed his assailants.

Each shot he took was as precise as it could be. The quivers flew off into the air with a determined whistle, and struck something far off. What he could see of his attackers were faint silhouettes, not aglow with the moon; as if these creatures had either learnt how to work with the night, or had never walked in day.

The air became loud with whistles of arrows soaring through the air. Their squeals were matched only by that of a few muffled cries, which were too short to reveal in. Fareld had become quick in his time; he was a young boy, perhaps, but he could hold his own against the best marksmen, after all his work suppressing his magical gifts.

"Hold on!" he heard a cry from the darkness; "Stop! It's not an enemy!"

Another, louder voice boomed, unmistakably Qunari; "Are you stupid?"

"It's a boy!"

"He's shooting at us!"

"And I'll get you right between the eyes!" Fareld cried out as he shot another. However, now he had no sight beyond him, for the moon had been covered by dark clouds, and the faint shadows he could see before had vanished.

The Qunari spoke again, his voice closer; "Maker, you're right!"

In his fluster to find even a hint of where they were, Fareld's bow was shot out of his hand by a well-aimed arrow. It flew to the side of him, and he froze. His calf throbbed as he slowly turned his head, only to be met with the piercing green eyes of a human man, his head a thick swath of brown hair and his skin somewhat tanned.

"Look, Bull!" the man called out to his partner, or whoever it was hidden in the shadows; "It's a boy! Damn it, we shot him!"

The Qunari – Bull – appeared before them. In fright, Fareld tried to reach for his bow, but it was kicked away by another; an elf with a bald head, who carried with him an air of quiet sophistication.

"I told you not to shoot that arrow," the elf said; "Clear shots don't always mean you're aiming at an enemy."

"Well, I'm sorry I'm not blessed with cat-eyes," Bull growled; "But from a distance, he could have been anyone. It was a necessary risk. Sorry, kid."

Fareld could only snarl, for his people had long been at war with the Qunari and he'd a deeply grained prejudice about them; "Shouldn't expect more from a Qunari demon!"

Bull's brow furrowed. His horns, great evil things that protruded from his head like spears, aimed down at him as he lowered his head, though it was not meant as a threat and Fareld's opinion of it was skewed by his own bias.

"I know that accent," he said; "That's Tevinter."

"Tevinter?" another man appeared from the darkness, his black beard and armour all the markings of a seasoned warrior. He kept in the shadows for fear that the boy was an ambush for something larger, and in the back of his mind, the child could understand his motives.

"You're a long way from home," the human said.

"And now without a horse," Fareld spat as he tried to struggle to his feet.

He was stopped, of course, by the elf, who lowered him down to the ground and examined his wound, his eyes sharp and astute.

Soon, he said; "You're not going to get far with that in your leg. We'll have to take you to a healer."

"Blackwall, pick him up." The human commanded.

As the warrior moved towards him, Fareld shouted; "No! I need no healers, no potions or remedies – I'm here on a mission, damn it!"

"A mission?" Bull sounded amused, but humoured him; "And what mission could be so important that they sent a child to do it?"

Despite his condescending tone, Fareld was obliged to tell him. Perhaps they, with their knowledge of Ferelden and whoever might live there, could help him along his quest.

"I'm looking for the Herald of Andraste," he said, resting his hands on his knees as he glared into their eyes, as if challenging them to interrupt.

The human's brow furrowed; "And why would you need him?"

"My…my home. It's at war."

"The Imperium's been at war since forever, kid," Bull laughed; "Why is it so important now?"

"Because now it isn't with your idiot race!" he spat.

"What do you mean?" the elf asked.

Fareld turned to him. In his eyes, he saw peace, wisdom, and for a moment he could almost find some sense of tranquillity.

Enough, at least, to explain.

"There are…Templars. Strange Templars. They came from the mountains. We have no idea what they want, but they're attacking whatever they can – killing whoever they find. We had no quarrel with them. We didn't give them reason to attack us." He took a deep breath, steeling himself as if he had witnessed some huge crime; "My…my mother. She was tending to the fields away from the city, and she died in an assault. The Magisters are happy to let it go on until they bore with us – they think we're safe in the walls – but I can't let her death be in vain."

The human's eyes softened. Beside him, the Qunari, somewhat subdued in tone, asked; "What do you think, Bryce?"

There were a few moments of silence. Then, still crouching beside the boy, Bryce said:

"My name's Bryce Trevelyan, of Ostwick. They call me the Herald of Andraste."

Fareld's eyes widened, but then he lowered his hooded head, the shadows swathing his face more so than before; "Then you are who I search for, Herald."

"The Tevinter won't be impressed at an 'outsider' meddling in their affairs," the elf warned.

"What else can we do, Solas?" he asked; "We can't let this boy go back to a warzone."

"He's good with a bow," Bull pointed out.

"And he's deadly with it, despite his size," Blackwall added.

As he saw his argument slipping in the different debates, Fareld sighed, reaching up to pull his hood down.

"I came to you, because you're my best hope," he said as he pulled it down; "and I thought you'd consider it when you saw my face."

When it fell away, the group gasped.

Looking down at him, it was unmistakable who Fareld took after. His face was a little more austere, his expression hard, void of what made his father quite so delightful. His eyes were that of piercing green, not unlike Bryce's, but his were more severe and sharp, as if in them they could see worlds of hardship.

"I am Fareld," he announced; "Son of Altus Tevinter, Dorian Pavus."


	2. Courage in Action

The horse was gone.

With it went Fareld's knapsack, and with that, all of his documents. He had recorded each and every detail he could find about the Templars; each vice and virtue, their history and accolades, and even their commanders in the bygone days of yesteryear. And now, as the cart he was in rumbled towards Bryce's operations centre, with the light filtering through splintered wood and cracked hinges, the boy mourned that loss in silent thought.

Solas had decided to sit with him. His presence was a quiet comfort, if nothing else. The elf's head reflected the light in a way most fascinating, and on the odd occasions he spoke he did so with a calm manner, as if he thought there were nothing out of the ordinary about their situation.

The wagon itself was a strange thing, with a fitted roof that was more a semi-dome, the mouth of which was covered by a thick sheet. Bryce had simply called for a hand from one of the farmers and they had happily given it. A good man, Fareld thought. Either that, or a good diplomat.

"We should be there soon," Solas said as once more the cart jostled; "It's a small reserve, near the mountains. It was built where Haven once stood. After the Breach was sealed, there were efforts to keep people safe, and our order was more needed than ever."

Fareld's brow knitted together, his voice confused; "The Inquisition continues?"

"No, no," Solas gave a soft chuckle; "At least, not by that name. We operate now as more of a reserve army. If the people need their lands made safe, or demons return, we do the best we can to help."

The boy nodded. Outside, he heard a cry of welcome, and another, closer to the cart. It was a man's voice: A man of good repute, he deemed, before the sheet was pulled back and he was face to face with a commander of sorts.

"You're not wrong," the man said, who with cropped blond hair and heavy armour stood beside Bryce; "That leg looks awful. Solas, what could you do to help it?"

The mage answered truthfully; "Nothing without herbs. Let Iron Bull pick him up. We have to take him to the main building."

"I won't be handled by a Qunari," Fareld said. As if to prove his defiance, he rested his hand against the cart's walls and struggled to his feet. A sharp pain shot through his calf, but he was too stubborn to let it show as more than a grimace on his face.

"Charming kid," he heard Bull snort from somewhere beyond his line of vision; "All the prejudice of a Tevinter. Oh, I can't wait for Dorian to see this."

The shade the canopy gave him was refreshing, but Fareld had not come to rest. Part of his mission was complete. He had found the Herald of Andraste, and by chance he was now in the heart of his operations, wherein the boy could only imagine he would meet the most influential of his supporters. This was his chance to save his home. He was in too deep to leave it where it stood.

Then another voice appeared. Fareld heard the footsteps approach the cart, and the crunch of gravel as someone pivoted on their heel. Outside, there were also the sounds of a dozen swords and shields clattering together – training, perhaps, to keep the soldiers fit and active.

"I thought I saw you and your merry band returning," the voice said, followed by the distinctive sound of a kiss; "And here I was just starting to miss you."

There was a soft chuckle in Bryce's voice; "It took three days? I'm disappointed."

"I don't recall you leaving with a cart," more gravel was crunched, and Cullen, who Fareld was still slowly approaching in his slow gait, nodded to some unseen person; "Is there something interesting in there?"

"Ah, wait – Dorian, don't-"

It was too late. Cullen, who had yet to properly see the boy within, pulled back the curtain until the sunlight flooded through the wagon's mouth, and as well as they seeing him Fareld had his first proper glimpse of the team.

Iron Bull was a gargantuan thing, with great pointed horns and a muscled form, all the more terrifying for Fareld's distrust. He had strapped to his back a dozen weapons, a shield included, and with his arms folded across his mighty chest he seemed almost calm. Solas stood beside him, as the weedier, lithe elf, who at some point in his life had either lost or shaved his hair.

Cullen he had seen, and for the first time he regarded the handsome Inquisitor. A man with thick hair, surely, as brown as a chestnut with the freedom of the sea, and a chiselled jaw. His eyes matched his own, Fareld recalled, but such was his countenance he seemed more at ease; as if even with the heavy burden of Andraste on his shoulders, he found reason enough to smile.

And then, there was Dorian.

The mage had fallen silent as he peered at the boy. His eyes had yet to react. It was in these moments that Fareld compared him to his mother's accounts. He was indeed a handsome man, with soft skin and dark brown hair, and a sort of charming aura about him with which he used to lure his companions. There was a sense of something stronger, too: A strength of character never told to him, or a maturity he hadn't quite developed when first the man had met his mother.

Indeed, the only physical difference from his mother's description and the man himself was a moustache, which in some ways suited him, and in others did not. Fareld stared into the eyes of his father, who never before he'd seen, and in his bones he could feel anger curling like a thorny vine.

"Bryce," Dorian said, his voice controlled, but confused; "Who is this?"

"This – this is," the Inquisitor sighed; "We found him out in the fields. There was…well, Iron Bull thought he was an enemy."

Dorian's eyes, which were a deep hazel, left the boy's face to run a quick scan around his body, and when he saw the bandaged leg he gave a tut.

"Really, Bull?" his tone carried an exasperated sigh.

"It was dark," the Qunari defended; "From that distance, he could have been anyone. But no. What we have here, Dorian, is a genuine, full-blooded Tevinter."

The mage's face changed somewhat; "A Tevinter? From Imperium? I don't believe it. If he was, where's the group he's travelling with? His parents? Anyone?"

Blackwall appeared from the side of the cart. He had stood in such a way that he was unseen to him before, and as Fareld took into account his thick black beard, his blue eyes and his quiet authority, he realised then that Blackwall was a man who had seen many a battle, and who had no wish to raise his blade so soon again.

"He was alone," the warrior assured Dorian; "Travelling on horseback. The damn thing ran off when Bull shot the arrow. I suspect it's lost somewhere in the mountainsides. That, or a meal for some bear."

Dorian shook his head; "Then what's he doing _here_? If you haven't noticed, this isn't exactly a stone's throw from Imperium."

"I came looking for the Herald," Fareld stopped conversation by speaking, and as he approached the edge of the mouth, he deigned to allow Cullen to help him down; "Tevinter demands it."

"Forgive me, but it strikes me that the Magisters wouldn't send a boy as young as you to deliver a message. Unless things have really changed since I left."

Fareld glared up into his eyes, his stature perhaps unintimidating, but had he his bow he suspected he could show those fools how well he could hold himself.

"What would you know about Imperium and its practices?" he growled, standing as best he could on his injured leg, which he kept bent at the knee despite himself; "You're as much a traitor as those who attack it."

Dorian's eyebrows shot up; "Excuse me?"

"Are you blind?" he hissed. Turning, Fareld walked to the modest gates of New Haven, which opened as they approached.

Dorian easily kept pace with the boy. He was surprised not only by his blatant hostility, but also the fact that he looked so much like him. Had he a brother he didn't know about? Some cousin with similar genes?

Solas matched Fareld's injured gait; "Fareld, you need to let someone help you. Your leg won't heal if you don't allow it rest."

Beyond them was a large stone building; a reconstruction of one that stood before, evident of the plaque that shone in the sunlight. As Fareld attempted to ascend the stairs, he saw there were three levels; the first for market stalls and new deliveries, as it was closest to the gates; the second for houses and the tavern, and where some of the soldiers found places to enjoy their nights, a warm fire slowly dying as he approached to ember; and the third, whereon that stone fortress stood, the monument to men that died in the war against the Elder One, and scattered before it were tents for the Quartermaster and the Spy-Master, both of whom Fareld had heard valiant tales of.

"Why rest?" he asked as he struggled; "Rest won't save my people, and it won't stop our enemies."

The elven mage dared to put a hand on his shoulder; "No, but it will help you to do it."

Just as Fareld turned to reply, he felt himself being swept up, and before he could shout he heard a jovial cry from Blackwall; "Onwards, to the Fortress!"

Behind them, the team hurried, though Dorian slowed to speak with the Inquisitor. Their relationship was a strong one, having withstood breaches, demons and more, and he felt if he were to speak to anyone, it would be Bryce.

"Who is that boy?" he asked; "He looks like me."

The human looked at him with soft eyes; "He…it's best if he tells you."

"No – you tell me."

"Trust me, Dorian, I have no way to say this. Just follow us. All will become clear, hopefully."

And because he trusted that Bryce would steer him right, Dorian followed him to the Fortress.

Inside, the Fortress was replicated from how it once stood. There was a long hall, void of acolytes, which spanned off into several, some with doors that were firmly shut. Fareld could glimpse stone pillars as he was carried to the war-room which created shadows, but in them he saw tables and bookshelves, and a host of strange relics on the walls. Tapestries, too.

_Tributes to those gone by_, he assumed.

The war room itself was a large place, with a rectangular table filled with maps, and the maps drawn on, pinned, and flagged. There were books enough there to keep a scholar satisfied, and enough documents to entertain even the most dedicated conspiracy theorist. As Fareld was set down on the floor, Cullen went about lighting the torches that lined the stone walls, and he realised then that there were many bookshelves around them that were filled with a great many things, and a single weapon's plaque on the wall far back that held a mighty, bloodied axe.

The people gathered around them. In all of their faces, it was Dorian's he was drawn to, though out of disgust or fascination he wasn't quite sure. It was then Fareld saw that three women had joined them.

One had hair as black as her armour, and a scar ran down her cheek like the boldest of battle spoils. Her countenance was fierce and rough, quite a touch more hardened than his own, and even in her mere presence he felt somewhat intimidated. Beside her stood a lady he had heard of many times; Leliana, who with red hair and lovely blue eyes could sway the most evil men. Her intelligence was well known to him. She was one of the rare few that counted brains to be of high value, and as such had taught herself a craft most difficult.

Then there was Josephine. Of her, he had not much knowledge. He knew she was from some noble family and that she was renowned for her diplomacy skills, but beyond that, she was a soft face with shrewd business wit, and who with smiles and enchanting brown eyes could be considered an exotic wonder of the world.

"You have the floor," Bryce said, pulling him from his reverie.

Fareld took a mental breath. Once more, he was drawn to Dorian's face. When he spoke, he glanced at them all, but he found his eyes returning to his father, and he found himself speaking more in depth than he needed.

"My name is Fareld Evodius: I'm a marksman in the Tevinter Imperium," he said, and was interrupted by small chuckles.

"You?" the black-haired lady said; "A marksman? You wouldn't even be able to see over the fortress walls."

Iron Bull replied; "Don't knock the kid, Cassandra. He's good with his bow. One of the better ones I've seen – he got me in the tip of my horn. In the dark. That's a small target."

Fareld decided not to tell him he had in fact been aiming for his forehead.

"Got me in the back of my hand, too," Blackwall added, and for the first time the boy noticed his bandaged hand; "And he definitely aimed for that. I saw him line it up."

Cassandra raised her brow; "Alright, he's a good shot. But why is he here?"

"Because," he continued; "My homeland is under attack, and the Magisters won't listen to me. Villages beyond the cities are being razed to the ground, cattle slaughtered, crops destroyed – people are being killed, and nothing is being done to protect them."

Leliana's mouth fell slightly open; "I can't imagine they would allow something like that to pass."

"Rumour has it we haven't the men to fight back," he explained; "Which is true enough. We have enough mages to fight, but our warriors are lacking severely, and what few marksmen there are can't be stretched as wide as they need to. Any men fit for duty decide they instead want to be merchants and earn themselves gold."

"Have you been sent anywhere?" there was no bemusement in Solas's voice, only genuine curiosity. To him, the boy's initiative to seek them out was proof enough of his bravery.

Dorian peered at him with quiet contemplation. He heard his words, but he was more concerned for the moment with his face. The attacks on his homeland could be dealt with quite simply, with enough force. But how did someone look so much like him, and yet hate him for no reason? He leant against the table, on the right hand of Bryce, with his arms cross and brow furrowed in concentration.

"No," he admitted; "I'm officially in training, but I've taken up more advanced duties due to the lack of other archers. Magisters are happy enough to use my skills, but not to listen to my input."

"That sounds familiar," his fellow Tevinter mumbled.

Fareld spoke once more to the room; "I was uneasy for a long time, but I chose to listen to the Magisters. I thought their wisdom would triumph over my fear. But I was wrong. I was so very, very wrong…"

The group were surprised to hear him trail off. In the boy's eyes, there was a sudden softness, a tender love not seen before, and though it was there for only a second before it was waylaid by immeasurable sadness, it was enough to be recognised.

"Tell them what happened," Solas encouraged.

"My…my mother. She was a Laetan, before I was born. Then she had to become a slave. This was why she was far away – she paid for me to live in the city while she worked. That's why she…" he gathered himself; "That's why she died and I didn't."

Josephine, with all of her innate tact, asked in her softest voice; "What happened to your mother?"

"Templars," he replied, much to the shock of Cullen; "But these weren't normal ones. No; they had red armour on, and there were these strange…crystals."

Bryce breathed out; "Red Lyrium."

"What?"

"I'll explain it another time," he said, glancing at his group; "Carry on."

"I heard the details from the only survivor," Fareld continued; "She said these Templars came from the mountains in great numbers. They had no chance to fight back. The houses were destroyed and those they found were murdered. She only escaped by sheer luck. My mother was one of the people killed. I went there, just to be sure-"

"You put yourself in a lot of danger," Blackwall noted; "How did you know they didn't set up a camp there?"

"They never do. The Templars always raze everything to the ground, and then they leave. I thought I might find her hiding somewhere, too afraid to move. No. I didn't even get her body. They burned all of the dead."

Bryce looked to Solas. It was the elven mage who seemed not to offend the boy most, and understanding what the Herald asked of him, he reached out to put a comforting hand on Fareld's shoulder.

It took a moment, but soon he spoke again.

"I come here not just for revenge, but to protect those still alive. How can I sit by and watch as the Magisters let our people die? How can I sleep at night, knowing some Templar might soon come to cut my throat?" he asked; "Herald, I might not agree with your choices," he glared at Dorian, and then Bryce realised that the boy shared some animosity now to him too, for the respectful edge to his tone had all but vanished and he seemed more emphatic; "but I know you're the only one who can help me – who can make the Magisters see sense."

There was quiet in the room. All eyes fell on Bryce, and he, with his arms folded across his chest, glanced at all of their faces before he sighed.

"How can I turn you away, when you've braved so much just to find us?" he asked; "We'll send a small envoy to speak with the Magisters. Perhaps they'll see sense. I'll personally attend."

Fareld nodded; "Thank you. If they won't listen to me, I can only hope they will you."

Dorian, who for his part had kept mostly silent, realised then that something struck him as odd. He did not move from his pose, but he did say, in a voice quite curious:

"I recognise the name Evodius."

Fareld glared at them; "So you deign remember my mother?"

"What?" he said.

"My mother," he repeated; "Better known as the woman whose life you ruined."

Dorian shook his head; "What are you-"

"Daughter of the Evodius Clan – first mage born in a family of humans," he said, his arms folded and his eyes stern; "Mari Pullo Evodius."

It was then that Dorian's face went white. He remembered that name. He remembered an encounter once many years ago, when he was too full of wine to know what he was doing, and his partner too charmed to resist him. His eyes went wide as he stared at the boy – young Fareld Evodius, son of Mari Evodius, who before he'd left Tevinter—

"You ruined her life," Fareld said; "You gave her me."


	3. Natural Suppressions

"A son!" Dorian exclaimed to his lover; "I have a son!"

They stood now on a balcony near the war room, for Fareld had withdrawn to the infirmary to have his leg tended to. Outside, the air was cold, the sky was overcast, and all of the warmth that had been that morning, either through sunlight or breeze, had vanished. Bryce faced Dorian as the mage paced to and fro, his own hand rested against the banister for support.

"Who was this girl?" he asked.

The man shook his head; "A woman I slept with a long time ago, before I found out about what Father was planning. It was an awful decision I made when inebriated, and I never repeated it."

"Well, once _is_ enough."

He shot him a look that bordered on annoyance and amusement, and despite himself the Inquisitor smiled. That in turn made Dorian smile, moving to the banister to put all of his weight on it, and hanging his head with a weary sigh.

"I have a son, Bryce," he said; "_Me._ A _son._ I never thought this would happen, much less that he'd hate me when we first met."

"Perhaps his mother had a hand in that?" the other said as he approached, putting a hand on Dorian's as though in comfort; "If she raised him alone, she could spit all kinds of vitriol and mistruths about you. He's confused. Scared."

The mage gave a half-hearted shrug, a squeeze of his lover's hand; "I'm not even sure how to take this. If it were just an attack on Tevinter, fine. But this is a whole new world of things I'm being thrown into."

"Not alone," Bryce reminded him; "You have me. I'll stand by your side. And, together, we can prove to him you're not as his mother told him. Perhaps he'll come around sooner than you think."

Dorian gave him a weak smile; "I'm not sure if I want him to."

Before the Inquisitor could ask anymore, Solas appeared at the door. They turned to him, for he had gone with Fareld to oversee his treatment, and when they noted the austere look on his face the first thing both felt was a stab of panic.

"Is everything alright?" Bryce asked.

"Not quite," Solas replied; "Would you come with me?"

"Fareld won't be too pleased to see me," the mage reminded him, as if they needed reminding after the revelation.

"He's been put to sleep for treatment. It's quite safe to attend, Dorian."

Without another word, the pair went with him. Bryce stayed close to the human mage, for if he didn't, he half-feared Dorian would collapse in shock, or he would leave New Haven in his astonishment and not pay heed to the carriages or carts that rumbled past.

The infirmary was a modest place, with tables stacked with herbs and books, and whatever else it was the healers asked for. There were no tapestries or adornments on the walls, but there were several beds placed in straight, ordered lines, and though most held soldiers caught in skirmishes, one in particular held a small, sleeping boy.

Fareld had indeed been put to sleep. Sweat beaded on his brow and his eyebrows themselves were knitted together. Beside him, there was a wash basin filled with water, and inside a wet rag with which to clean his face. His body was laid as if he were being prepared for burial. Despite his misgivings, Dorian struggled to see the boy so still, as in his mind images of corpses appeared and taunted him.

"He's twitching," the mage said to Solas.

"He's having a nightmare," was his explanation; "Now, here's the wound."

The bandage had been opened, to reveal a bloodied, gashed calf. The arrow had entered at the top of the muscle and, perhaps when he had been thrown from his horse, had somehow managed to slice through the entirety of it. Fareld's wound would have caused him a lot of pain, they were told.

Dorian dared to touch the child's leg, moving it so as to properly inspect the cut; "Walking on this would have been excruciating."

"Your son either has a strong will, or a high pain threshold," Solas said; "But that's not the worst thing I've discovered."

"There's more?" Bryce was surprised; "Does he have more wounds?"

Solas wiped at Fareld's brow with the wet rag; "No. Not physical ones. Dorian, who was his mother?"

"A mage in a Laetan family," he said; "She was the only mage in it. Why?"

"It seems Fareld's adopted both of his parent's skills."

There was a moment of quiet. In his mind, Bryce thought that it was strange for the boy to be a mage and not use magic when he attacked them, though partly due to ignorance in magic and its practice he could see no further into it.

Dorian's expression was blank at first, and then, as he realised what that meant, it dropped.

"He's…suppressing it?"

"It seems that way," once more the boy twitched and murmured beneath him, and Solas put a comforting hand on his forehead; "A dangerous practice. It could prove fatal if it's allowed to build."

"You can suppress magic?" the Inquisitor asked.

"It takes an iron will and a lot of self-control, but yes."

"It's also extremely dangerous and foolish to do," Dorian said, with a hint of annoyance in his voice; "If he lets that control slip, even once, the magic could come out. It might be as small as moving something far away, or as large as burning down a village, himself included. Why would he do this?"

Solas looked up at him; "Forgive me for suggesting, but perhaps it's out of spite?"

"Spite?" Bryce repeated.

"Anyone with eyes and ears can tell Fareld doesn't think too highly of his father," the mage explained, and he did so in a voice that brooked no personal opinion, nor room for argument; "If he was told by his mother that Dorian was a mage, he may have decided to suppress his gifts at a young age. That might explain why he's so good with a bow."

"Distracting himself?"

"Precisely."

The Inquisitor nodded, though he added; "But that makes no sense. His mother was a mage too. Why would he suppress it then?"

"I have my theories. One of them is that Fareld is almost an exact double of his father," he gestured to the boy's face, perturbed as he was by his nightmares, and once more Dorian realised that he did indeed look like him; "Another is that his fear of showing himself goes deeper. In any case, we have to convince him to stop this."

"He trusts you," Dorian pointed out; "Out of everyone back there, you were the only one he seemed to respect."

"I can do my best, but I worry I won't be able to convince him."

"Try," Bryce said; "Dorian and I will take over when you feel it's out of your depth."

"We will?" the human mage replied. He was given a look that affirmed it, but any protests he had would have to wait until later, when they were not in the company of healers, soldiers, and Solas.

The elf put his fingers on Fareld's wrist; "His pulse is fast. I doubt he's eaten properly in a few days, either."

"When he wakes up, let us know," Bryce said; "and have someone fetch him some food."

"Are we to leave New Haven soon, Inquisitor?" Solas asked; "Only, I doubt Fareld will be satisfied until we're heading to Tevinter."

"We'll go as soon as-"

He was cut off by a loud shout. Fareld, who unbeknownst to them had entered a horrific part of his dream, shot up from where he lay, hunching over and gasping as if he had been under water. His hands clutched at his throat; there was desperation in his eyes as he stared down at the bed, and much to Dorian's relief he did not take the time to look up.

"Fareld," Solas fell to one knee beside him, a hand on the nap of the boy's neck; "What's wrong?"

"F-fire," he muttered; "A lot of fire…"

And once more, without real reason, Dorian felt the urge to reach forward and soothe his son. As he felt his fingers twitch, the human mage turned, walking towards the door without a word.

Bryce, who lingered behind for a few more moments to assure Solas had control of the situation, soon followed Dorian out.


	4. To Find Friends

It took two days for Fareld to emerge from the infirmary, and even then against the advice of his healers.

To come from darkness into the brilliant light of day was a strange thing. He felt in some ways that he had experienced dwarf life, living underground where there was no sun, and in others that he knew what it was to be old and frail. Solas followed him in case his leg caused him trouble. There were few pains, but those that remained were sharp, and he hid them behind furrowed brows and impatient tones.

Bryce, true to his word, kept an eye on him. The boy showed signs of animosity towards both the Inquisitor and Dorian, though not much, as Fareld kept the time spent in either's presence short.

Now, while Bryce leaned against the banister of his balcony, which overlooked the grand mountainsides and the training grounds, he chose to watch as Fareld emerged from the city gates to approach Cullen.

"You have a lot of soldiers," the boy said when he reached the man; "but I don't see many marksmen."

Cullen nodded, his hands at his hips as he supervised his men; "Our need for soldiers is greater than our need for archers. We have a few, but they're trained more in swords than bows."

"Why would you leave so wide a gap in your defence?"

"We have mages. They deal with the ranged attacks."

Fareld scowled; "An arrow to the face is more threatening than a frozen enemy."

"Perhaps," the man had a chuckle in his voice; "but it's also more convenient with what we have at our disposal."

The boy glanced around the training grounds. To the side of them stood a small blacksmiths of sorts, with a man hard at work on an anvil and a few soldiers browsing through his wares. Beside that there was a stable. It was not so much a stable as it was a fenced area with tame horses, and the man who tended to them was a kind-faced bald fellow, hands rough with years of work.

The training grounds themselves left a lot to be desired. As it stood, there were a few tents set up in which Fareld imagined they kept the soldier's recruitment sheets, and the flatland before it was stomped by a hundred feet. Clumps of earth sat around the tents like mounds of dirty sheets. He could only assume horses had passed through there at once, and instead of flatten the land Cullen had instead decided to simply pitch it as it was.

"Here," the man leaned over to a small chest beside him; "If you're so good an archer, show me something."

Fareld was given a bow – nothing extravagant, just a simple long bow with a few steel arrows. It felt good in his hands. He felt as though a part of him had been returned.

"What should I hit?" he asked, preparing the arrow.

Cullen glanced around, and then gave a small smile.

"How about that?" he pointed to a barrel near the gates.

The boy glanced at him and readied his bow; "Not much of a challenge."

"You want a challenge, do you? Hit the cork."

From where he stood, Bryce could see him line up the shot. Something within him mourned it. Fareld's knowledge of the bow seemed deep, almost intimate, and somewhere in the Inquisitor's mind he glimpsed a small, toddling child, given his first set of armour as if going to war.

Fareld let the shot go. The arrow whizzed through the air, missing by centimetres a passing man's head. It took a split second, but to him it felt like a lifetime. Time slowed as he watched his arrow fly, only to speed up again as it hit.

A perfect bull's-eye.

"Wow," Cullen said after a moment; "That's…pretty good."

"I'm good at what I do," Fareld shrugged as he equipped another arrow; "Again?"

Cullen, now intrigued, decided to set up targets for the boy. When it seemed he was able to do them all, he set up time limits. Again, they were obliterated. Moving targets were made, and he hit them, with the exception of a few errant arrows stuck in guard's armour, and the occasional yelp of pain from someone who bent over at the wrong time in the wrong place.

"Maker, you really are a good shot," the captain said after a while; "How long have you practiced with that thing?"

"A long time," was Fareld's reply, smiling at the bow as if it were an old friend; "Mother's friend got me one for my birthday when I was very young. That was before she went away. I've practiced ever since."

"The Tevinter have a good marksman in their army, then." Cullen smiled.

Fareld glanced at him; "Yes, right. Anything else I can do?"

It was then that they were interrupted. A voice called from the gates, and before he even turned around the boy could recognise Bryce.

"I saw you testing out our new arrival," the Inquisitor smiled when he approached Cullen; "How is he?"

"One of the better archers I've seen, which is saying something since I preside grown men," Cullen said; "Fareld, show him what you can do."

A guard was set up with a small board, and the boy lined his shot. The guard ran far. With a steady exhale, Fareld saw the world go in slow motion, and, like a bird taking flight, he shot his arrow.

"Bulls-eye," he smiled when he saw the thumbs up.

"That's impressive. We could use an eye like that here," the Inquisitor said, peering off at the guard.

"You need marksmen," Fareld said with a business-like voice; "Mages are good, but if they get possessed, you have problems. Archers usually don't have that problem. And the great ones can hit further than a mage ever could."

"Ever thought about leaving Tevinter?" Cullen asked; "We could make space for you here."

The boy shook his head; "No. The Imperium needs me. What few men we have in our army have to be preserved, no matter the cost." From the side, he glared at the gates that led to New Haven, and added; "Besides, there's hardly any reason for me to stay longer than I have to."

The words were damning, but in them Bryce could find a little hope. He heard the word 'hardly.' Perhaps that meant, in some little corner of Fareld's mind, that not all hope was lost for his father.

"How's your leg?"

"Better," he replied; "Are we moving soon?"

"Fairly soon," Bryce replied; "Tomorrow, if we can. But-"

There was a small commotion that interrupted him. From the corner of the training grounds, someone – those afraid of wildlife, perhaps – had run through the guards, causing some sort of confusion, and like children they tumbled into one another, some rolling on the floor.

Fareld glanced at the Inquisitor with a smirk.

"What a well-trained army," his voice dripped with sarcasm.

"What the Hell is happening?" Cullen called out. He was answered by the person who made the mess; the citizen who deemed it fit to run through a group of armoured guards, and who was lucky to tell the tale.

"Sorry," he puffed; "Just…something bit me over there. Startled me, is all."

"Where?" Bryce asked.

As they spoke, Fareld retraced the man's steps. He had come in from the mountainside roads, which the boy suspected led to some area of work, and there were a few bushes in which something could hide.

A flash of white fur caught his eye. He took aim, but instead of firing, crouched down to the floor, moving forward with slow grace.

"Give me a reason…" he murmured.

Parting the bushes with his elbow, he went arrow-first. With a keen eye he peered, and just when he thought his mind was playing tricks on him, another flash of fur caught his attention.

He moved his arrow left. His breathing slowed. Then, he saw a small snout. A black nose sniffed at the ground and cowered back, and he heard little whimpers in the air.

"Hey," he soothed, stretching out his hand; "Come here. It's alright. Come on, now."

A face appeared. He recognised the indistinguishable features of a fox, but this was with white fur. It looked young; perhaps it had come down from the mountains and had lost its way, or like Fareld its mother had died and it was all alone.

"I won't hurt you," he murmured, carefully picking it up and creeping out of the bushes; "There we go."

"Fareld, what are you doing?" he heard a call. He looked up to see the Inquisitor watching him, and with a frown he answered.

"I found a fox."

"You best let it go near the gates, where it can run off."

"I don't want to let it go," he said, brow furrowed; "I'm keeping it."

"It's a wild animal," Bryce said.

"So are horses!" he lifted the fox to his shoulder, where the creature surprisingly draped itself. In a quiet voice, he said; "I'll call you Legionnaire."

As Fareld went to the gates to find some food for his new pet, Dorian emerged. The boy easily side-stepped him, but on his face he held a look of disgust, and the mage could only raise his eyebrow when he saw the fox on his shoulder.

When he was gone, Dorian said to Bryce; "What was that?"

"Fareld found a friend," the Inquisitor's voice was weary; "I doubt we'll be able to get it off of him."

"What if it bites him?" Dorian approached them; "Who knows what diseases it's carrying!"

"If it bites him, we'll deal with it then," Bryce smiled; "Do I hear concern?"

The mage shook his head; "Of course not. I don't care. I just don't want a wild animal running lose in New Haven, getting in everyone's way."

"Of course, of course."

Cullen interrupted them; "Dorian, I think we need to talk about your boy's potential."


	5. A Threatened Tevinter

Cullen was a man of action. Dorian told himself this as each word fell from the captain's mouth. He knew that he meant nothing by it; his suggestions that Fareld, young as he was, be put on the frontlines of war, were merely born out of his interest to protect others.

But somewhere deep inside, it still angered him.

Bryce listened, though the mage could tell he was doing it out of his respect to Cullen rather than interest in his proposal. It was almost as if he could read his thoughts. This virtual telepathy had helped them many a time, but Dorian was eager for the conversation between them to end, so he could hurry into New Haven and somehow check that the fox hadn't bitten his son. To know that Bryce would stand and listen to the entirety of Cullen's suggestion simply frustrated him.

"The boy's right," the blond said after a time, when Dorian refocused himself; "We're severely lacking in archers, and we need as many people to fall back on as we can get. We can recruit, sure. But I guarantee you, very few will be better than Fareld with a bow."

"But they'll still be efficient?" Bryce asked. His eyes seemed engaged, but he had already decided against Fareld's induction to their ranks. Dorian suspected that, even if they were to agree, the boy would not.

"As efficient as our training regime is," Cullen replied.

"If we need archers, we can recruit them. We've no need to endanger Fareld by exposing him to our enemies." Dorian said. The pair turned to him, and he fancied he saw a fleeting emotion in their eyes, too quick for him to determine.

"Marksmen are harder to train than soldiers," Cullen admitted; "Strength, agility, and general aiming takes a lot of time to master, or even be proficient in. If we could hone your boy's skills – make them unrivalled – we could turn him into a stronghold in himself."

Dorian felt his blood boil, but when he spoke, he was calm; "The boy would never agree to stay here. New Haven, as he's made clear, isn't his home."

"So you're happy for him to return to Tevinter after this?" the Inquisitor asked. It was a genuine question, without any motive other than knowing what was going through his lover's mind, but Dorian thought he caught a note of deeper meaning there.

"I didn't say that," he replied; "I'm just making it plainly obvious that Fareld's got a mind of his own. Even if we were to agree, he'd rebuke us for it and decline."

Cullen nodded; "Nevertheless, try to convince him. We could make good use of his dead-eye."

It was on that note that the pair departed. When they were out of earshot – Dorian checked that the gates were firmly shut behind them – he turned to Bryce.

"Fareld won't be a part of our wars," he said without intent of debate; "Even if I thought we stood a chance of convincing him, I'm telling you I won't try."

"Did you think I would ask?"

The mage shook his head; "No, but I've found I have to be clear and concise how I feel about any situation, or the exact opposite of what I want happens."

"I won't suggest anything to him without your permission," he said, though he knew himself he would have never mentioned it regardless; "You truly care about Fareld, don't you?"

Dorian raised an eyebrow; "I suppose there's no use denying it now. I don't know what it is. Nature, probably. I became a father two days ago to a boy who despises me, and now I'm prepared to give my life to protect him. Strange how instincts work."

"I wouldn't call it instinct," Bryce said, coming closer to him as though to keep their conversation more private; "I'd call it love."

"If it is, it's very one-sided."

"Fareld isn't my biggest fan either," Bryce crossed his arms and leant against the stone pillar that held the gates in place, his head laying against it as he gazed at Dorian; "He's angry. Alone. Lost."

The mage matched his pose; "And yet he has no problems thinking of me as a traitor to the Imperium."

"How many others knew about what your father was planning?"

"Apart from you, me, my father and whoever else was involved, I never told anyone."

"Mari wouldn't have known, then, and probably told him some story to sate his curiosity."

Dorian's eyes became dark; "If only she told me…"

"What would you have done?"

The mage turned, until both of his arms were behind him and his palms were flat against the stone, his face able to see New Haven and all its simple workings. He looked down at his feet, kicking some small pebble and scuffing the tip of his boots.

"Back then? Probably run faster," he confessed; "Now? I have no idea. I'd like to think I'd make the right choice."

"I have faith you would," Bryce told him.

Dorian's face light up slightly with a small smile. He glanced at the Inquisitor out of the corner of his eye, and then at the Fortress, where he could see little else but the tents outside and the building itself.

"His mother's dead," Bryce said after a while; "What does that mean for Fareld?"

The mage replied; "Well, if I'm right in thinking his grandparents aren't involved, he'll likely be put into an orphanage of sorts. They train the children more for war and slavery than they do for adoption and academia."

"That's terrible. But what makes you believe they aren't?"

"He was able to come here without too much trouble," he said; "and he hasn't mentioned anyone else in his life except Mari. I'm sure Solas could find out who he lives with in the city, but so far he hasn't said anything about them, so I assume he doesn't see them as relevant."

The Inquisitor nodded; "You've put a lot of thought into this."

"Simple observation, I assure you."

"Of course."

Dorian let another smile appear, however small and fleeting; "In any case, if he returns to Tevinter after this business is over with, that's where he'll likely end up. And as Cullen's put it, he's a good shot with his bow. I doubt they aren't going to see his potential as a war machine."

Bryce nodded. He turned to look out at the grounds of New Haven, and saw by the tents the subject of their conversation. Fareld had the newly named Legionnaire in his lap, and was feeding it tiny pieces of meat – where he found it was anyone's guess – as around him men in armour geared themselves up for training, and the Quartermaster made arrangements for more weapons.

Dorian caught sight of him too, folding his arms over his chest as he watched; "He doesn't look like a war machine."

Solas appeared behind the boy. He approached without restriction, and when Fareld noticed him the elf suffered no rebuke, only invited down to see his new pet. When he took the offer and sat beside him, peering at the fox, Dorian's brow furrowed.

"What is it?"

"Solas is his favourite so far," the mage explained; "I'm not sure what I'm feeling right now, but it certainly isn't relief."

"Jealousy?" he asked, with a small, uncondescending smile on his face.

"Dorian Pavus does not get jealous," he replied, though he didn't sound too sure.

Solas looked down at the fox with intrigued eyes. He fancied it came from the mountains, confused and too young to defend itself, which was why it was so pliant in a stranger's hands. For the most part, Fareld seemed capable of taking care of it. The child let out one of his rare smiles, and even without the moustache Solas felt he was looking at a smaller replica of Dorian.

"Fareld," he said after a moment; "A few days ago, we talked about your life in Tevinter."

He shrugged; "Yes?"

"Could you tell me more?"

"What is there to tell?" he asked, allowing Legionnaire to take more meat from his hand; "Mother raised me until she was bought as a slave, she left me with a friend, who died of a disease, and left her house to my mother in her will. That was sold, I was sent to live with children of other slaves who work outside of the city, and now I've jeopardised that by coming here. Not that anyone will notice."

"That's a lot of bouncing around," Solas noted; "and how did you feel about that?"

"I didn't have a choice. Mother couldn't keep me in the home she was employed in, and I needed to be near the training grounds."

"It doesn't mean you had to like it."

He paused for a moment, then shrugged and said; "I lived with it."

Legionnaire's snout butted at his hand, and with tender eyes he stroked his pet, muttering some soothing words under his breath. Solas saw then the deep compassion he was capable of. He also drew parallels: Fareld, a recently orphaned young boy who, for all intents and purposes had risked his life to find them, and little Legionnaire, an orphaned young fox who, for all intents and purposes had risked his life to end up in Fareld's care.

Dorian sighed and pushed himself away from the pillar; "I suppose we should gather up what we need for this trip."

"You're coming?" the Inquisitor said, obvious surprise in his voice.

"Of course," the mage held his own surprise; "Two people very important to me are going – you, and Fareld. Did you expect me to stay behind?"

"No, I just…I wasn't sure how to broach the subject."

"No need," he said; "The least I can do is go back and make sure this mess gets sorted out. It'll be strange, but it has to be done."

Solas tried a different tactic; "Fareld is a strange name for a Tevinter."

"I was named after an elf."

"Ah," he smiled; "Who was he?"

"Mother said he helped her when her family disowned her, after I was born. He was a slave for them. He brought some of her jewellery so she could sell it, and she said she'd name me after him for it." His face turned sour as he added; "It's not my first name. It's my middle one."

"Is it? What's your first?"

Fareld went silent. Instead, he allowed the fox to eat more, and only turned to look at Solas when he was prompted further.

"What does it matter? I go by Fareld."

"You must want to tell me. You wouldn't have mentioned it otherwise."

He sighed; "Promise you won't tell anyone else?"

There was something so wonderfully childish about it that Solas agreed, perhaps against his better judgement, as he had also avowed to tell Dorian and Bryce anything he learnt about the boy.

Fareld sighed and his shoulders slumped; "It's Dorian. Dorian Fareld Evodius."

Solas blinked in surprise. For a moment, he considered laughing, but decided that would make the boy retreat back into his shell.

"After your father?"

"Mother said I was the only good thing to come out of him, and he'd never know it," he said; "So she named me after him. 'One good Dorian in the world is all we need.' She hated him."

There was almost a tender reminiscence in his tone, but Solas fancied he was holding back somewhat. There was more to his mother's character than he dared admit. He remembered her as a loving mage, who even in slavery had thought of his best interests, and perhaps would never tell them anything contradictory.

Dorian looked up at his son; "Should I tell him when we're leaving?"

"If you think it's best," Bryce said; "If not, Solas can."

The mage took a deep, steadying breath; "Alright, here I go. Wish me luck."

"You don't need luck," he smiled; "But good luck."

He ascended the stairs towards them, where Solas caught him in the periphery of his vision. With ease, the elf stood and greeted him.

"Is the Inquisitor free now, then?" he asked.

"Yes, I believe so," Dorian gestured down to him; "He hasn't told me of anything he has to do."

"Wonderful. I'll see him now. We'll continue this discussion later, Fareld."

Solas hurried down the stairs towards Bryce, leaving in his wake an awkward silence, filled on Fareld's side by burning anger. The child stroked his fox, petulantly staring down and away from his father.

"We're leaving in two days," he said, standing at an angle with his arms folded; "Is that alright?"

"Fine," he murmured.

"We've decided Solas, Bull and Blackwall are to come with us."

There was a quiet; "Not the damn Qunari."

"Yes, the damn Qunari." He sighed; "Not all Qunari are evil. Granted, he's a lummox, but you shouldn't believe everything the Tevinter tell you."

Fareld snorted; "And I should trust you?"

"It would be better than the Magisters," he replied.

"I'm loyal – something you wouldn't understand."

Solas approached Bryce with a sombre air; "It appears Fareld's not unused to travelling a lot."

"What do you mean?" the Inquisitor had been so fixated on Dorian and Fareld, he hadn't noticed the elf approach.

"He hasn't had much of a stable life," he explained; "Moved from pillar to post; one house to another, and then another, and I assume more than he's told me. And now he's saying he's jeopardised that by coming here."

The man frowned; "Not ideal for a young boy. Cullen said he's been practicing with his bow for most of his childhood, too."

"Escapism at its finest," Solas said; "I'm sure all of us together could hear things that form a general picture of his life up to this point, but the intimate details…I doubt he'll tell us them until he trusts one of us."

"He trusts you."

"Only insofar as I've not offended him yet. You're in a relationship with his father, his father he dislikes for reasons obvious, Bull's a Qunari and Blackwall picked him up when he didn't want him to."

"He did make an impression on Cullen earlier…" Bryce observed.

"And Leliana says he's a polite child, once you get past the general mistrust and withholding of details."

"Leliana?" the Inquisitor raised an eyebrow; "And who else has had contact with him?"

"Josephine came in to see him, as did Varric – on Bull's tell, mind – and Sera stopped in, too."

"Why?"

"Well, for a multitude of reasons; he's the youngest person in New Haven at the moment; he's from the Tevinter Imperium, and therefore interesting; rumours of his magical suppression have spread like wildfire; and, of course, he's Dorian's son. Dorian, who's currently in a relationship with the Inquisitor, and who everyone thought would never reproduce, as it were."

Bryce's brow furrowed; "I'm not sure I'm entirely comfortable with those reasons, or that people have been visiting him without my being informed."

"Interaction is important for comfort," Solas said; "I was going to tell you, but he distrusted the other healers and I wanted to make sure he was as comfortable as possible to help his recovery. I apologise."

He waved his hand dismissively; "It doesn't matter now. Is there anything else he said?"

Solas adjusted his robe belt, suddenly uneasy.

"Yes," he said; "But he's made me promise not to tell you."

"We agreed that everything concerning Fareld would be reported to us."

"He made me promise," he repeated; "But, I can tell you this. Fareld isn't his first name. It's his middle one."

Bryce shook his head; "What? He goes by his middle name?"

"His first is…" he searched for the words, and without them he shrugged; "He was named after someone he dislikes very much."

"Bull?" the man joked, but when he saw Solas tilting his head towards the pair, who apparently were now involved in some heated debate – he trusted the mage to settle it soon – it clicked. "Dorian?!"

"Do _not_ tell him," Solas stressed; "If Fareld finds out he knows, he'll trace it back to me, and I won't be able to speak with him on Dorian's behalf."

Bryce let his hand run up his face and through his hair; "I think I'm starting to get a headache."

"Secrecy will do that to you," the mage almost smiled; "Best not to think what else he could be hiding. I'm sure it'll become clear when you go to Tevinter."

A shout erupted from the Fortress, loud enough for the men to hear. Their head snapped round in time to see Fareld draw an arrow back on his bow, aiming for his father.

Legionnaire lay on the boy's shoulder as he held his bow up, more threatening Dorian than actively taking aim, though his temper could easily lead down that path. In his anger, he was spitting things in Tevene, and he could barely see as Dorian took a step back, more shocked than afraid. Such was the speed he spoke, spewing vitriol, that the people around him who flocked to see were unsure what language he was using.

The Inquisitor's reaction was swift. He was almost certain he flew as he appeared at Dorian's side, shielding the man. Solas, who hurried behind Fareld, lifted him up with a swift hand, though the child kicked and struggled, letting loose his arrow which in turn careered into the side of one of the tents.

"For Maker's sake, someone calm him down!" Bryce called, but the most they could do was have Blackwall help to restrain him and take him instead. All the while, he continued speaking at speed in his native tongue.

When the doors to the Fortress closed, and he could only imagine Fareld was taken somewhere he wouldn't hurt others or himself, Bryce turned to Dorian.

"Are you alright?" he asked, touching his cheek.

Dorian seemed almost dazed; "I wasn't expecting that."

"Why did he do that?"

"I don't know. We were arguing, but I'm not sure what I said to provoke the arrow."

The Inquisitor hugged him, comforting him, as around them their small audience dispersed, tending to their own affairs in order to give some privacy.

"What was he yelling at you?" he asked.

Dorian shook his head; "It doesn't matter."

"I want to know, in case it upset you."

The mage looked as if he were going to argue, but must have thought better of it, for instead he sighed:

"He said something along the lines of: 'No matter what happens, no matter who I meet or what I do, you're always going to be a dark stain on my life. You abandoned my mother to fucking slavery, you left me behind, and if there's any justice you would go through what I have ten times over, with ten times more intensity.'" He shook his head; "There was more, and a lot more profanity, but that's the gist of it. The rest is…I don't want to repeat it."

"Dorian…"

He brushed his hand away; "I'm going to go to our room. Leave me be."

Bryce could only watch as Dorian went to the Fortress door, hesitating for only a moment, before he opened it and went inside.


	6. On the Road to Nowhere Safer

"This is humiliating."

"Yes, well, you shouldn't have made us do it."

Fareld had been sat on the back of Solas's horse, his hands bound together by comfortable rope. His bow had been confiscated – he could see it on Bryce's back – and his personal effects, such as his arrows and cloak, were strapped in a bag that itself was strapped to the Inquisitor's horse. All that he was allowed to have was Legionnaire, who draped himself over his shoulder with a leisurely air, unable to comprehend the enormity of the journey he'd just joined.

"It's been two days," he mumbled; "and the Herald has my bow. What harm could come from untying me?"

Solas replied, with his eyes still cast forwards; "I'm not sure, but I'm almost certain you'll find it."

The land around them was beautiful. Before, when Fareld had first seen it, he was so focused on finding Bryce that he hadn't taken the time to admire the skies, now overcast, and the continuous stretches of vegetation, broken sometimes by small ponds or the occasional, unobtrusive farm. There were brave souls there who worked with the land, unprotected by city walls or multitudes of guards. He wondered if he would ever feel safe in their way of life.

Legionnaire nipped at his hair. Fareld turned, and was met with the large welcoming eyes of his pet, who for two days now had been a constant companion. He imagined it would be the same if he owned a dog. In Legionnaire he had a friend, a comrade, a confidant he could tell his fears to, and not be concerned about the consequences later. That a simple fox could give him such comfort was to him both immeasurably absurd, and remarkably uplifting.

"It's okay, Legion," he murmured, nuzzling the fox's large, white ear; "We'll be okay."

In front of him by two horses, Dorian peered around Blackwall and Bull to check on the boy. Solas was good at keeping the child's balance; the horse jostled and swung its great brown head from left to right, but each time, it seemed the elf had control of it, carefully steering it to achieve maximum stability.

As the mage pulled himself back to sitting on his horse, he sighed.

"Something on your mind?" the Inquisitor asked.

Dorian glanced up to see that Bryce had turned his head halfway to him, and with a shrug of his shoulders he replied:

"Just eager to see this whole business finished with."

"It will be soon," Blackwall said; "Templars are hardly the worst thing to face. A dragon or Blight – now, there's something to anticipate."

"These are Red Lyrium Templars, Blackwall. They're insane and can take more damage than most men I've seen."

"I'll be more interested when we've seen them up close," he laughed.

Fareld peered down at Solas's belt, and saw there a dagger without its sheath. Perhaps it was used for quick defence; otherwise, he could see no reason for it not to be properly holstered. As he glanced beside him, he saw the corners of the mountain where first he was found by the Herald, and he thought back to his horse with all of his notes.

Glancing first at his bindings, then the dagger, Fareld carefully used the sharpened tip to begin cutting through the rope.

Bryce asked Dorian; "Tevinter doesn't sound like a place too friendly to outsiders."

"Oh, no, they love tourists," he replied; "Visitors in general are welcomed with open arms. What they don't like is those visitors dictating what they should do with their own people. Magisters are a proud lot, and rarely ever admit their own faults."

"If they're allowing whoever lives outside the city walls to die, why haven't the people stood up and demanded justice?" the Inquisitor asked; "It seems odd to me that everyone in the city doesn't have people living beyond it."

Dorian shrugged; "It depends who those people are. No one will miss a slave or two. Very few nobles live in the countryside, and those that do often only do so for six months out of the year. Entire villages could burn and without important people or equally important family members, everyone assumes the Magisters won't care."

Fareld's bindings were sliced through. His wrists sprang apart, and he flourished his fingers as if they had been clasped together for years.

The first thing he did was stroke Legionnaire's furred back, as he had been unable to for the past two days, and then, he turned his head to see the mountain corner.

Sensing that the party in front of him were in some debate, he took his chance.

Fareld had always been fast on his feet. Even now, with his leg as it was and still healing, he could outrun some people and a few of the slower animals. As he jumped down from the horse and raced forwards, he first heard Solas shout, and then heard thundering hooves chasing after him.

With his injury, he chose different ways to do things. He leapt forward, into the trees, and used them to help himself. He heard shouts behind him – one such being 'This kid's going to be the death of us!' – as he jumped from branch to branch, feeling the sting in his calf more sharply than ever before. It was all he could do to check that Legionnaire was still draped on his shoulder as he ran.

His horse had disappeared there. If he could find it, its corpse or just his knapsack, he could retrieve his notes on the Templars. They gave him comfort that they were a human enemy. That his mother's people and she herself had just been unprepared, and what he was about to face weren't superhuman killers able to crush well-armed men.

Dorian could see his son's shadow flitting through the trees, and his horse powered after him. Beside him was Bryce, and behind them were the rest of the team, who called out to him as if he would listen.

"Of course, it would be Fareld who ran off without warning," Iron Bull growled.

"Don't lose him!"

The boy saw beyond the leaves a glimpse of a stream, and lying on the bank was a large, vague black shape. He changed direction without warning. Below him, he could hear swearing, and then the horses were after him again.

He broke free from the branches. With ease, he stood on the very tip of one, a bonus of being light, and saw that the black shape was indeed his horse, lying very still by the babbling water. Its legs were splayed in a way that seemed unnatural. There was no doubt about it, even before he reached the thing; his horse was dead.

But he was more concerned by the people leaning over it than anything else.

With a yelp, he sped forwards and onto the floor. His calf stung. His eyes watered. But he raced on. The horses were catching up to him, as were the people on them. As they reached closer and closer, an idea sparked in his brain, and before he knew what he was doing Fareld had turned and swung around on the closest horse, which as luck would have it was Bryce's, and took his bow back.

When he landed on the floor on the other side, he shot two well-aimed arrows. The people near his horse fell down. The steeds beside him, some in front, slowed down as they realised what had happened. Legionnaire, who had lost his balance when Fareld had jumped and had landed on his feet in some bushes, clambered once more to the boy's shoulder.

"What the Hell was that?" Blackwall shouted.

Fareld put his bow on his back and began to hurry over; "It's my horse."

The two dead thankfully had the look of bandits; tattered clothes and bloody hands, as well as a lot of gold on their person. He could see daggers lying in their sheaths, and as he searched his horse, he was thankful to find they hadn't yet destroyed his knapsack and taken all inside.

The others quickly came over to him, and Bryce exclaimed; "Did you even know what these people were?"

"Far away, they're anybody," he replied as he dug through his things.

"Well, that's an awful way to look at things," Dorian grumbled, though he did so under his breath, not wanting to have the bow turned on him again.

"Found it!" he shouted, which in turn made Bull and Blackwall jump. Pulling out a small, leather-bound notebook, Fareld opened it up with glee; "And it's all still here! All my notes!"

"You killed these people!" Bryce said; "What would you have done if they weren't bandits? If they were just people?"

Fareld ignored him; "Look! These are the notes on the Templars. I have them back!"

"Fareld!" Solas was the one who spoke. As expected, the boy turned, raising an eyebrow at him.

"What?" he said, a hint of annoyance in his voice that his celebration had been cut short.

Bryce took over again; "You killed these people without good reason to. You could have murdered someone innocent."

"They weren't," he replied; "They're bandits. It's collateral damage. Look." Once more, he gestured to his notes, and with a sigh Dorian shook his head at the Inquisitor. He was lucky the boy didn't see it.

Solas climbed down from his horse and went to him; "Let's see what you have, then."

The pair gave the notes a cursory glance over before standing to leave. Bryce reached to take Fareld's bow from him, but just as he was doing so the boy ducked again, and he almost toppled off his horse.

Dorian steadied him with his shoulder; "Careful. We don't want you knocked out."

"What are you doing now?" Blackwall asked, while Bull murmured something along the lines of 'This kid's a liability.'

Fareld was rummaging around in his knapsack once more, and when he came back up he had something shiny in his hands.

"Got it. Let's go."

"And what have you 'got,' exactly?" Dorian asked.

"Something," he growled as he climbed back on Solas's horse, with help from the elf.

"Show us," said the Inquisitor; "and hand me your bow."

He didn't have room to argue, so instead he sullenly gave his bow over, along with his shiny item. As Bryce opened his hand, he found it was like a pocket portrait – a tiny painting of him as a very young child, with wide, bright green eyes, sitting on his mother's lap, looking tired and troubled, but with a protective arm around her son's waist.

Bryce looked up to see Fareld glaring at him.

"Look after it," he grumbled.

As the horses began their trot back to the path, the Inquisitor handed the portrait to Dorian, who looked it over with a twitching mouth before he gave it back and followed the others.

They travelled for many hours, and soon enough, with them all tired, set up a camp somewhere near a large hill. Its shadow was cast over them like an ominous cloak. The moon slowly climbed up into the sky, and its glowing presence comforted Fareld as the darkness set in.

The boy wasn't allowed to do much. He gathered firewood and watched as Dorian lit it with magic, but aside from that, he sat at the edge of one of the pitched tents, away from the warmth. Legionnaire laid in his lap, asleep, and for a moment he recalled hearing that foxes were nocturnal. Perhaps his was special.

Solas glanced over at him; "Come sit by the fire, Fareld. It's too cold to sit alone."

He shook his head.

"You'll catch your death of cold and won't be able to help anyone."

Fareld looked at him as if he were about to argue, but acquiesced and moved over to sit beside him. Bull offered food, but when he was about to growl back at him something about being a bloodthirsty Qunari, Solas instead thanked him and took it.

"Eat," he ordered, and the boy once more acquiesced. It was a simple meal, but filling enough, and as he watched the flames flicker and dance before him, his fox snugly curled in front, Fareld began to listen to the stories being told.

There were many, and though shortened, they were epic. Bryce was telling one of his when the boy closed his eyes. Within moments, he was asleep.

"Didn't think he'd ever drop off," Bull commented when he glanced over; "Who's moving him to the tents?"

"He just fell asleep. If you move him now, he'll wake up," Dorian said.

So instead, they continued talking for a while, and somewhere in the night Legionnaire moved to curl up in the arch Fareld's sleeping body made. When everyone turned in for the night, Dorian made a tentative move towards his son.

"Give me the portrait," he said to Bryce.

"Why?" he asked as he handed it over, having been tucked in a pocket for a majority of the day.

Dorian took it and went to the boy. Legionnaire stirred, glancing upwards, and gave a little huff, moving closer to Fareld as if protecting him.

"Easy," the mage soothed the fox as he lowered himself to one knee, holding up his hands to show his lack of weaponry; "I'm not going to hurt him."

Legionnaire was still wary, but he allowed for Dorian to quietly slip the portrait into Fareld's pocket, and then amazingly let him lift the boy up.

Fareld was lighter than he thought. The boy curled into his father, unaware of who he was in his slumber, and as Dorian carried him to the tent he dared stroke his hair in comfort.

The child stirred; "Mmphm?"

He considered freezing, but instead Dorian went to the tent and began to lower him down; "Go back to sleep."

"M-mother?" bleary eyes looked up, Fareld's brow furrowed, and confusion flooded; "Mother?"

"No. Go to sleep. You have a busy day tomorrow."

And in the tent, Fareld nuzzled down and murmured, in a half-conscious voice; "No – Mother's not here."

Dorian stayed kneeling beside him for a few minutes, with an arm across one knee and the other knee on the ground. Fareld didn't seem to be having a nightmare. Instead, he was content, at peace, and behind him the mage saw Legionnaire hurry across to lay with the boy.

"He's asleep," Bryce said as he approached, shadows dancing over his face as the moonlight washed over them; "Come on – leave him to his dreams."

Dorian hesitated, and then, with a sigh, did as the Inquisitor told him.


	7. Fights Abound

As the days went by Fareld found it easier to sleep in the others' presence. He and Legionnaire silently claimed a particular tent and each night they slept in it, with the fox keeping Dorian's secret of tucking the boy in and, more recently, planting kisses on his often furrowed brow.

The mage had been subtle, for the most part. To avoid a repeat of their disastrous New Haven talk, Dorian only spoke to the boy when he asked a question around the midnight fire, or when he queried as to what sort of life was led by the natives of other regions. Through this, he found Fareld wasn't willing to make arguments where they were not necessary. He thought back to what he had said to warrant a bow to his face in New Haven, but the shock of it had blocked the conversation from his mind.

Fareld, too, had made some progress with his prejudice. He was wary around Iron Bull, but when the Qunari offered him food or spoke to him, he either took it or nodded along, never quite conversing but always listening. There were times when Bryce thought he saw the child reach for his bow in Bull's presence, but as the bow had been confiscated from him – eight times by then, as somehow he always stole it back – it was too far for him to reach without attracting attention.

In any case, Bryce took some mercy on him. He handed the boy a spare knapsack they found on their travels, and in it he put young Legionnaire, who peeked out every now and then to see what was going on. It became a regular thing to see a little snout poking from the lip of his bag.

The days were long and arduous, with the clouds bringing rain and the wind bringing chill, and the constant worry of their depleting water supply. Few rivers were clean enough to drink from when the banks turned muddy, and those they found were often guarded by bears and other fearsome beasts.

When they crossed into the Tevinter border, the first thing Fareld did was direct them to a stream. He'd apt knowledge of his homeland, which he told Solas was necessary for marksmen, but which so few had bothered arming themselves with.

"Arming yourself is a strange way to put it," Bryce said as he filled up one of his decanters.

Fareld, with his hands on his hips as the others followed the Inquisitor's lead, replied; "Our most powerful weapon is knowledge. A thousand swords are useless if you don't know how to swing them. An archer can only be as good as his knowledge of the land is, and if there's a tree you weren't counting on, or the shadows fall in a way that make it hard to see, your shot isn't going to be as good as it was before."

Dorian felt a burst of pride in his chest. That his son thought so highly of knowledge and didn't skip corners was a relief to him. If he was open to that, perhaps there was still a chance for the mage to convince him that the Magisters weren't the pinnacle of politics, and he could do much better if he extracted himself from their rule.

"This is a beautiful place," Dorian's lover said to him as he approached, a full container in his hand; "How have you never told me about the forests here?"

It was true. Before them was a swath of forests most environmentalists would cheer for. Where they stood, as the whole region seemed low, there were endless trees clustered together like young town cliques, and stretches of land made beautiful for blooming flowers. Fields where farmers plied their trade were pregnant with winter fruit and the sky, though dark and stormy, seemed almost brighter there, as if Tevinter magic had taken darkness and made it into light. There were a few mountains on which some of the forests clustered around, like strange bases, and even on low ground these seemed to stretch upwards and into the sky. On the horizon, there were more, impossibly so, and with a slight thrill up his spine Dorian thought that that was where these Red Lyrium Templars were hiding.

"Wait until we get closer to the cities," Dorian scoffed; "It's all stone and lumber. If the highways had been built, all of this nature would be gone. Beautiful, undisturbed, and always the favoured spot for war."

"Qunari like to think they can outwit us here," Fareld said as they descended down to one of the roads, thankfully preserved by whatever council had power there; "So far, there have been thirteen skirmishes, eight small battles, and one ten day war with them on this border. None have been successful."

Bull raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. He was almost impressed by the boy's knowledge. And for once, it felt as if he weren't directing the hostilities personally at him; something he had been wont to doing when first they set out.

"How do you know that?" Blackwall asked, more interested in war than he was geography or politics.

Fareld looked at him as if he had just grown a second head; "I read. Reports, books, historical texts. When I'm not training, I'm learning. Well, most of the time."

Solas, for one, was surprised. With the boy's particular situation, he hadn't expected him to be able to read much beyond the basics, if at all. He would have to probe him later to learn just what he knew.

Dorian dared ask; "Who taught you to read?"

"I picked it up watching the circle scholars," he replied, an amiability in his words that perhaps he didn't mean, or didn't notice; "They use to talk about it all the time – 'Have you read this author? He's wonderful. Best of the best.' – 'Oh, yes, but have you read _her?_ Next big thing. Her scrolls-' – 'Both of you are disregarding the great Loresse – blah, blah, blah.' I found the easy books, had someone from the circle help me as his good deed for the day, and I learnt from there."

The mage felt a smile rise to his face. He glanced to Bryce beside him, which in turn only made it wider, as he saw a look of slight pride light his lover's expression.

Solas took a deep breath. He had been waiting for a time to broach the subject. The topic of magic had never been discussed in front of the others, and when the elf did find some time to bring it up, Fareld expertly and effectively deflected it. Now, as they clopped down the well-maintained road and heard in the distance some farmer shouting to another in Tevene, he decided it was a good time to bring it up.

"Fareld," he said, leaning on his horse's strong head for a look of calmness; "Your mother was a mage, correct?"

The boy gave him a strange sideways glance, and then directed his eyes back to the road; "Yes."

"She was Laetan, wasn't she? The only mage in her family."

Dorian glanced at Bryce once more. Together, they felt a slight anticipation in their hearts. It was a conversation they had discussed once before; something they had decided was best left until either Fareld had more faith in them, or his suppression became far too dangerous.

"She was."

"And we all know your parents were two mages."

Fareld chose not to reply to that. He even felt a slight prickle of awkwardness in the back of his skull. He wouldn't, despite his lack of arguments with the man, call Dorian a 'parent.' He still felt much the same hatred for him as he did before. Or did he? He searched his memory, wondering when the last time was that a dark thought about him crossed his mind, or when he'd out-rightly told Dorian to stay away. There were more times in their travels when he'd answered his questions than deflected them. A few times, he had almost asked him for help, either climbing atop his horse or leaping into the trees for a better scouting view.

_No,_ he told himself: _You hate him. You hate him for what he did. Don't fall for it. Mother would be disappointed in you._

Legionnaire appeared out of his bag as if sensing his train of thought. With a gentle hand, he soothed him.

"Fareld, what I'm getting at is, are _you_ a mage?"

It was pointless to ask. The answer was more or less obvious. Bryce and Dorian knew, the others suspected, and in New Haven Solas had been tasked with making sure his health was in check. But the boy knew none of this. He thought his avoidance of the topic had been enough to suggest he wasn't one.

"No," he lied; "I'm a Soporati."

The Inquisitor chose then to reveal themselves; "Fareld, we know that's not true. We know you've been suppressing it."

And just like that, the boy felt as if they were crowding in on him. His cheeks tinged red and he, not thinking fast enough to deny it, said instead:

"How do you know?!"

That, of course, only made matters worse. Fareld realised what he'd said just after he said it, and in a flush of embarrassment, anger and childish spite, he'd snatched up his bag with Legionnaire inside, jumped from his horse and dashed into the nearby forest.

"Fareld-!"

Dorian clambered from his horse; "I'll go after him."

"Wait, I'll join-" Solas began, but was cut short.

"No, no, that's alright. I know this land more than you do. And, well…" he searched for the words, but instead gave the excuse of; "It should be me."

The Inquisitor gave him an encouraging if weak smile; "We'll be here when you find him."

Dorian disappeared into the thicket. Bull turned to Bryce, and with a roll of his eyes he said:

"That kid isn't going to be the easiest to look after."

"What makes you think we were planning to?" the man asked, to three incredulous expressions.

Blackwall leaned against his horse in the same way as Solas, as if somehow it would enhance the frankness of his words; "We assumed that was what you and Dorian were leaning towards."

"Fareld's only family is Dorian," Solas added; "It's in both his and the boy's best interest to reconcile."

"We aren't sure even what will happen yet," Bryce pointed out, if only to keep the debate alive and not explicitly let them know he, if not Dorian, had been thinking about it; "It could be that someone else takes him in."

"The way I hear it, Fareld's not got many people close to him," Bull suggested; "And he's still young. Plenty of time to grow into a good man. _If_ someone gives him a chance."

The Inquisitor offered them a little smile; "I'm sure things will work out for them both. We just need to give them some time."

"I agree. Far too much has happened to expect this to be fixed overnight. Time is needed," Solas said.

Blackwall tugged at his horse's reins to pull it to a small plot of grass; "I only hope these Templars don't get to them first."

Inside the forest, Dorian searched for his son. There were many twists and turns, many directions he could take, and in his heart he felt a slight stab of panic that he'd lost him. But sure enough, he heard a little sniff behind a small bush, beside a tall tree, and followed it.

He found Fareld balanced on a gnarled root that had broken free of the soil. His eyes had a tell-tale build-up of water on the lower lids, and Legionnaire had tucked himself close to the boy's stomach as if in comfort. As Dorian rounded the tree, he heard what sounded like a sob.

His heart ached to see his son like that. It was as if someone had taken his hardened exterior and, with the mention of magic, had softened it to reveal something close to the core. As he slowly came closer, Fareld muttered something under his breath akin to: 'Stupid magic.'

With a great deal of care he said; "Magic isn't something to be ashamed of."

Fareld looked up. His eyes were indeed watery and his lip quivering, but when he saw Dorian his expression hardened.

"Go away."

"Fareld, it's dangerous," he said; "If you contain something for too long, it breaks loose. It's a part of you. You can't escape it, and if you try to hide it, it festers in you like poison. I know first-hand what that's like. It isn't something I want you to experience."

As he spoke, Dorian dared to sit beside the boy, but Fareld edged away. His eyes were cast to the side of him in an attempt not to look at his father. Once more, the mage felt as if a sharp needle was pricking his heart.

"Fareld-"

"_No_."

He fell silent. Two piercing green eyes looked up at him, aflame with anger, tears and, somewhere amidst it all, heartache.

"I came to find help for Tevinter, and now here you are, trying to tell me what to do. I'm _not_ a mage, Dorian. I'm not. I get to make that choice. I get to be who I want to be. Because I spent my entire life wondering why, why do I look like you, why did my mother have to work far away, why did some people have parents when I didn't – and why did you _leave_?"

The passion in his words was made fiercer by years-long pain. Dorian looked at the boy, so like him, who hated who he was and where he came from, and even though he hadn't known, the mage felt responsible for it all.

Fareld's face went suddenly white. His eyes had moved from Dorian to stare over his shoulder, and suddenly he was hurrying Legionnaire into his bag.

"What-"

A twig snapped behind them and an arrow flew past Dorian's head.

"Run!" Fareld shouted, before he charged from his seat into the forest. After him followed a shower of arrows, and without knowing what was going on Dorian gave chase.

"Fareld!" he shouted, but the boy couldn't be seen. Arrows still soared through the air. "Fareld, where are you?!"

Somehow Fareld had managed to disappear. Dorian searched, but being out in the open was dangerous and he could hear shouts behind him; shouts that verged on human and Qunari. His blood ran cold. The arrows stopped. Around him the forest felt as if it were in a whirl with not a single detail the same, and his only concerns were for his son and Bryce.

Then, he felt something solid hit his front. In his disorientation, he hit out, but the hand was caught and a familiar, loving voice murmured:

"It's alright! It's us."

Shaking his head, Dorian looked up to see Bryce, and behind him the team. Bull had gathered up his arms and was peering where the mage had just come from, and Blackwall hurried over to linger behind a tree, almost as cover. Solas was busying himself with forming a protective barrier around them.

"Fareld," he said suddenly to the Inquisitor, his hands falling to his arms; "We have to find Fareld. He ran off."

Bull dodged an arrow and let out a shout; "We've got bigger problems right now!"

"The boy will be fine," Blackwall said, pulling up his sword; "We've got people to fight!"

Dorian went to protest, but it was futile. Instead, he turned around, angered that these creatures had chased off his son, whoever they were. It was then that he came face-to-face with the terror Fareld was so afraid of.

They wore matching black armour, but it was pulsating with red crystals. Their faces were twisted into horrible snarls as they charged through the forest, flattening everything in their path and brandishing bloodied, Red Lyrium weapons.

Dorian's empty right hand and staff sparked with magic as he faced them, but a thrill ran up his spine that was undeniable. These were the Red Lyrium Templars Fareld had told them about, who he'd set out to defeat, and who now had attacked them for no good reason.

And beside them, Bull could see his own face reflected a dozen times, for there were Qunari in their ranks that seemed under the thrall of Red Lyrium. Their eyes were a hazy red glow as they charged forward, like demons, and their faces were so contorted by rage and power that they seemed incapable of thought.

The battle ensued. Bull faced dozens of men, and beside him Blackwall grappled with his own, defeating foes left, right and centre. Solas kept up his barrier for as long as he could, but soon he resorted to attacking and defending instead, since the Templars seemed Hell bent on destroying them no matter what stood in their way.

They fought near a ridge on the mountain, which wound round it like a rocky vine. It was covered in trees that grew at a strange angle – first horizontal, then upwards – and bushes lined the first thirty feet of it as if bordering it from the rest of the forest. All around, the peaceful thickets became alive with the sound of fighting, the smell of blood and steel, and the thundering of a hundred feet determined to kill each other.

Dorian fired shot after shot. For a time, he and Bryce worked together, but soon the Inquisitor was sectioned off by a belt of enemies and Dorian was alone. The mage fought back as best he could, but he was getting tired. His magic was becoming weaker. Sweat beaded down his forehead as he stumbled back, desperately throwing out balls of block ice and whatever else he could muster.

When he was rounded on by another Templar who held his sword high above his head for the killing blow, Dorian said mental goodbyes to Bryce, Fareld, and the world. His eyes closed, and he prepared for the end.

But then he heard the familiar whistle of an arrow, and a painful cry. His eyes sprung open to see the sight-slot in the Templar's helmet had an arrow protruding from it, and he was howling in agony, swaying to and fro as blood poured from the wound and he eventually collapsed.

Dorian looked behind him to see who his saviour was. On the ridge, with his bow lowered to his feet, stood Fareld, who breathed heavily through his mouth and had his fox-bag swung over to his hip. The boy looked first at his kill, and then at his father. As their eyes connected, he offered a little nod.

Then he glanced behind him and a look of fear descended on his face. With quick speed, Fareld began to run up the ridge, and following closely behind was an enthralled Qunari.

"Fareld!" Dorian shouted, but the boy was gone.

With renewed determination, the mage attacked each enemy as he saw them, and soon enough they lay on the floor either bleeding or dead. Bull and Blackwall would finish off those still alive. Solas would tend to the healing. Dorian, on the other hand, grabbed Bryce by the shirt and pulled him towards the ridge.

"What are you doing?!"

"Fareld's up there!"

That was all he needed. Together, the Inquisitor and Dorian hurried up the ridge, only to find the eight foot Qunari holding Fareld by the throat, inches away from killing him. They stood a few dozen feet from the ground – one wrong move, and the boy would be thrown over the edge, or his neck snapped.

Dorian held out his staff; "Drop him!"

The Qunari turned. It still had some semblance of intelligence. It snarled and laughed at them, grip tightening on the boy.

"One move," it said; "and I cut his throat."

The glint of steel was suddenly known to them. Bryce, thinking fast and taking a risk he would later deem unnecessary, picked up the nearest thing to him – a rock – and threw it at the Qunari, which hit its eye.

With a howl, it staggered back. A sharp point had scratched its cornea. Fareld was luckily thrown to the side, where a landslide had blocked off the ridge and made a small barrier. His back hit it with a terrible thud, but before he could even think about the pain he reached for his bow.

"You'll pay for that!"

It reared up and prepared to charge. Dorian's staff sparked with energy, ready for a fight, and Bryce prepared his own bow, but then suddenly the Qunari stopped. Its eyes went wide and its speech slurred. A little gurgle fell out of its mouth before its eyes rolled into the back of its head, and it fell forward to reveal an arrow sticking out of his skull.

Behind him, Fareld, still lying where he'd been thrown, had his bow aimed. His breathing was heavy and he looked up at the others, getting over the adrenaline rush enough to say:

"I took my bow back."

As the rush fell out of their body and both Dorian and Bryce panted for breath, they celebrated their victory by laughing in relief.


	8. The Fire Burns Deep

That same night, Fareld was granted his bow back, and he stayed close to the group from there on.

They had left their destruction behind, perhaps for some animal to later devour and do away with, while continuing on with their journey to the capital. The boy lingered with Solas, but occasionally he would glance up and look at his father, his eyes deep and contemplative, before he looked away again. His heart still burned in anger. His pain was still deep, and cut like a sword. But somewhere in his mind, he'd seen fit to save Dorian from certain death.

Legionnaire was shaken after battle. Together, they sat at the edge of the camp fire being built, and Fareld stroked his fur in an attempt to calm him. It soothed him, too. It gave him a moment out of his thoughts to focus on something else; and his thoughts were a tumultuous place to be.

The trees of the forest around them rustled with the breeze and a shiver went up his spine. Their trunks were like black cylinders wherein people could hide, or faeries were imprisoned like in his old storybooks. The chill felt like tiny, sharp teeth in his skin, and for a moment he envied Legionnaire's warm fur, for he was freezing.

The boy looked up. Silver moonlight washed down over them as slowly the moon climbed into the sky. The tents threw up contorted shadows and the pit for the fire was being bulked with kindling and wood. He could see Dorian in the shadows, crouching beside the pit as he waited for the others to return from their hunt.

Even in the darkness, Fareld could see the flickers of relief in his eyes, and the last dregs of adrenaline flood from his system. So too did he see the occasional glances his way, as if checking that he was still there, still breathing, still alive.

With a sigh and a great deal of hesitation, Fareld shuffled over to him.

He knelt beside the mage. His hands rested on his legs and he stared down into the fire-pit, giving a slight sigh of resignation.

"How do I…" he began, much to his father's surprise; "How do I make fire?"

Dorian raised an eyebrow, but answered; "Here: Put your hand near the kindling."

Fareld did so. His hand was laid flat, and the mage dared move it into a fist with the index and middle finger left out, pressed together. Then, he pressed them gently to the ground and released his hand.

"Now," he said; "Focus your energy. It helps if you close your eyes."

"But if I close my eyes, I won't know if I've done it."

"Trust me, you'll know."

For a moment, he seemed unconvinced. Then Fareld sighed, closed his eyes, and tried to focus.

It was difficult. Gathering up his energy to put into magic was something he had actively avoided, and so as he willed his body to do what it never had before, it fought back. His brow furrowed, his lips twitched, and a strange, choked sound came out of his lips as he tried to force it.

When finally he relented, his breath came out in an emphatic exhale and his hand he snatched back.

"Damn!" he muttered.

"Easy," Dorian said, his hand resting on the boy's shoulder; "It's not something you can force. You have to trust yourself first."

Fareld looked at him with a frustrated air. His brow was once more furrowed, his mouth in a hard frown, but unlike before when Dorian was the main source of his ire, his father only offered an encouraging smile.

"Try again," he said, as he himself put his fingers to the kindling; "This time, don't force it. Let it come naturally."

Despite his uncertainty, Fareld did as he was told. His fingers went back to their original position and, much like Dorian had instructed him to, he closed his eyes, this time breathing slowly through his nose and focusing on the stilled beast within him. Legionnaire had curled up beside him, expecting soon to be warmed by the dancing flames of the camp fire.

It was a hesitant reaction. First, the boy could feel his tension bleed away. His mind reached down to lace its fingers with his magic, and the beast opened a glowing eye. For a moment, Fareld wanted nothing more than to flinch away. Surely if he had been alone he might have done. But instead, he allowed the warmth of the fire to flow through him, directing it by mental instruction to his fingers, where from soon he could feel a gentle heat pour.

Fareld's eyes opened. In front of him, he could see the kindling catch alight, and the rising orange flames began to feed on the firewood. Like tongues they licked at the charring lumber, slowly reducing it to ash.

Dorian smiled and looked down at his son. There was such immeasurable pride in the boy's eyes that, when he too looked up, he had a smile on his face, as if by lighting the fire he'd climbed an undefeatable mountain.

"There we go," the mage said; "It's an innate power. No forcing or coercing needed. If you don't abuse your magic, it will serve you well."

Fareld nodded. It was a single nod, without the enthusiasm of a child who had just found a new toy, and somewhere in his mind Dorian fancied he preferred that. It meant he wouldn't treat it like one. At least, that was what he hoped it meant.

Behind them, the others appeared, carrying armfuls of what looked to be dead deer.

"There's a lot of deer in this place," Bryce said as he took his burden to the fire; "Easy food."

Solas glanced at the fire and then the boy, and realised something calmer about him. His shoulders were not as tightly wound. His eyes were softer, if only a little so. There was a tranquillity about him that would have gone unnoticed by most.

"Fareld," he asked, to which the boy turned; "Did you make this fire?"

Once more, he gave the small, concise nod.

The Inquisitor raised an eyebrow as Bull and Blackwall unloaded their burdens of deer beside his.

"With magic?"

"He wanted to know how to make fire," Dorian said with a smile on his face. It was the smile of a man who had achieved some sort of milestone.

"Well," the man crouched beside Fareld to inspect the flame; "Looks good. This should be enough to cook the deer. Great job."

The boy was thankful for the dark. If not, all those gathered around him might have seen his blush, or the bright pride in his eyes as Bryce poked at the small clumps of ash and ember with a branch.

Deer was cooked and all enjoyed a merry meal. Blackwall told them all the story of the legendary Grey Wardens, who first faced the terrible Blight when it graced Tevinter many years before, and he did so with such force in his voice that even Bull was enthralled. Fareld listened like a wide-eyed child would to a seldom seen, adventurous relative, until finally his eyelids drooped down and the world began to blur.

Solas, who sat to the side of him, allowed the boy to lie his head down on his chest, and in moments he was asleep. The elf stroked his hair as his breath evened out; one exhausted boy to the Fade, where his dreams could take him from the memories of battle.

Dorian looked softly at him from where he sat at the opposite, beside Bryce. Fareld was at peace, his expression relaxed and calm, and for a moment the mage was lost in his gentle face.

"He's a fighter," Bull said, speaking as if the admission was something very personal to him; "Takes a lot of courage to do what he did today, even at a distance."

Blackwall nodded; "There are warriors, there are mages, there are archers. They're all soldiers when put together in the same army. Fareld came back to fight. He must consider himself one of us, in some sense."

"Or he needs us alive," Solas said, if only to play the Devil's advocate. But he too believed Fareld's return was a sign of great courage, and was reminded once more of the will that kept his magic at bay for so long, and the intuition with which he sought them out.

"I'm just glad he made it out alive," Bryce added; "It was close there for a moment."

"There's something tough in him, sure as shit," Blackwall said.

Dorian stood; "I'll take him to bed."

He gathered up his son and, with a nod to the others, took the boy to his preferred tent, with Legionnaire lazily following behind. As he gathered up the bedding and the blankets, he pressed the customary kiss to Fareld's brow and, lingering for a moment, admired him once more.

"Well done," he muttered, and returned to the fireside.


	9. Early Risers

Fareld lined up the shot.

It was early morning, and around him there stood trees with light filtering through their branches, casting on the grass patches of gold and dappled shadows. The chatter of animals, insects and birds reached his ears and he smiled, for he was listening to the songs of a hundred different species, blessed as he was to be standing on that gentle curve that sloped from the sharp ridge of a pathway.

His arrow tip was aimed at a small deer, which stood some ways in front of him gnawing at the grass. Deer were early risers, and often late to bed. They made for the perfect food for any traveller, as so often his party had feasted on them after a long, tiresome day. The powerful muscles he could see beneath its coat were accentuated through graceful, fluid movements, and for a moment he felt truly at one with nature.

With a slow exhale, he prepared to release.

"Fareld!"

The sudden voice made him start, and the arrow whizzed through the air with its familiar whistle. The deer looked up, its wide eyes frightened and confused, and as soon as it caught sight of the two figures on the ridge – one the unintimidating Fareld, the other the ominous, metallic physique of Bull – it skidded off into the thicket and was gone.

"Damn it!" he muttered under his breath. "So close!"

The Qunari yawned, using the back of his hand to cover his mouth; "What're you doing up so early? Everyone's still asleep."

"I _was_ about to catch breakfast, before you scared it away," he replied, a hint of annoyance in his voice, but no longer bordering on offensive. Inwardly, Bull marvelled at his progress. In a few short weeks, Fareld had gone from hating him and wanting all Qunari dead, to tolerating his presence enough to speak with him.

Bull leaned down and held out his hand; "Come on. Let's see if we can't scrounge anything else up."

There was a moment of hesitation in which the Qunari thought he might decline, but soon Fareld took Bull's proffered hand and let it help him to the ridge. The boy's hand was much smaller in his own; he wondered at how truly tiny it was, for it didn't even fit in one quarter of his.

When he was back on the path, Fareld sheathed his bow. Their tents were scattered in the only flat area they could find. Dorian and Bryce were sleeping side-by-side, their foreheads pressed together, and Solas had taken to sleeping upright on a nearby tree. Blackwall, of course, slept with his weapon hugged to him, thankfully with its scabbard on and its hilt close to his face.

"There's something peaceful in all this," Fareld said as they stepped over them, each move precise and careful so as not to wake the others; "It's incredibly unnerving."

Bull laughed; "Enjoy it while it lasts. We haven't got the best track record when it comes to 'peaceful.'"

Legionnaire appeared from Fareld's tent, and the boy crouched down beside Blackwall, opening up his bag for the fox to scurry in. He did so with a pleased lick to the boy's hand.

The trio crept out of the camp and made their way towards another secluded spot in the forest. Iron Bull told Fareld to stick close, but the boy only nodded, and he had an odd feeling that was only meant to mollify people and held no real promise.

"Look," he hissed, his voice quiet as the songs of birds filled the air; "Do you see that?"

The Qunari turned to face Fareld; "What?"

"There!"

The boy was pointing upwards, where there was yet another mountain, and on the very edge there seemed to be some object glinting in the sun. It gave out such a sharp shine that Bull had to blink, and saw bright spots appearing on the insides of his eyelids.

"Aw, damn it," he murmured, rubbing his closed eyes with his fingers; "What is that? Some kind of rock?"

"I can't tell from here. It could be anything."

"Do you have some binoculars?" he asked; "We could use 'em to see."

"I left them at the camp. If we go back now, we could lose where it is."

Fareld stood beside Bull, his hands on his hips with his elbows bent. He looked up at the Qunari as thought silently communicating something, and what he received was a shaking of his companion's horned head.

"Oh no," he said; "No, we're not going up there. We're looking for food. We're not running off to a mountain because we saw something shiny."

"Where's your sense of adventure?"

"About three days that way."

He huffed; "Fine."

Scanning the area, Fareld's face suddenly changed expression, and he turned to Bull again.

"Lift me onto your horns."

The Qunari blinked; "What?"

"Lift me onto your horns," he repeated; "If I'm higher up, I might be able to make out what it is."

"My horns aren't a climbing frame, kid. You wouldn't be able to keep your balance."

"We'll never know if we don't try. Just trust me. I can keep my footing."

Without another argument at his disposal, and secretly intrigued as to what the thing might be, Bull relented and helped to lift the boy to his horns. He could just about hold his weight; a testament to either how to strong he was, or how light Fareld was.

Bryce's eyes flickered open. The world blurred into vision; the rays of gold that filtered down from the trees; the foraging animals that scattered when someone stirred in slumber; their tents, no longer highlighted with the silvery glow of the moon; and Dorian's eyes looking back at him, his moustache and mouth turned slightly upwards in a smile.

"Morning," he murmured, nuzzling his head.

"Mm, morning," Bryce sleepily replied; "How did you sleep?"

"Better than the night before. How about you?"

"Good."

They shared a soft kiss, and Dorian tucked his hand underneath his head like a makeshift pillow.

His eyes slipped closed and he mumbled; "Are the others still asleep?"

The Inquisitor glanced over him. He could see Solas and Blackwall, the elf sitting upright against a tree and the Warden hugging his sword. But there was no sign of Iron Bull.

"Bull isn't here," he said as his own eyes slipped close and he laid his head back.

"What about Fareld?"

"Probably in his tent."

"…I can't hear Legionnaire snoring."

Both of them sat up. Legionnaire's snore had become something as regular to them as breathing; it was loud enough to be heard, and mentally Dorian cursed the fact that Fareld had chosen perhaps the only fox that did it. To not hear it now was a cause for concern.

Bryce went to check Fareld's tent. Sure enough, he found it empty.

"He's not here," he said.

Dorian felt a familiar shudder of his heart; "Well where is he?!"

"I don't know. Look, relax. He can't have gone far. Perhaps he's with Bull?"

"Oh, wonderful," Dorian sarcastically replied; "Who knows what trouble those two can get into? They'd probably start arguing over a rock if it was the only thing there."

The Inquisitor stood and took his hand. Though he too was concerned as to where they might have gone, he had long ago tasked himself with making Dorian feel better wherever he could.

"We'll find them," he assured; "Come on – let's wake the others and we'll all go looking."

It was a few minutes later that the bleary-eyed band were walking through the forest, searching for their lost friends. Dorian was tempted to call out, but he knew the risks of doing so; either he found them, or he attracted unwanted attention from whatever else lurked in the forest.

When they had reached a certain spot, where the leafy canopy separated to let down a shower of golden light, they heard a familiar voice. They froze. Together, as though they were bats, they honed in on the noise and followed it.

"Move left!"

"Which left? My left or yours?"

"We're facing the same way, Bull."

"Can you at least see it?"

"Yeah, but the reflection's too bright. I can't make out what it is. Move left so I'm not catching the sun."

They parted the bushes to see Fareld balanced atop of Bull's horns, and Bull making careful steps to the left in an attempt not to knock him. Dorian's hands flew straight to his eyes.

"What are you two doing?!" he exclaimed. Fareld started and almost lost his balance, but Bull with lightning quick reflexes helped to steady him. The boy's arms flailed for a moment as he regained his footing.

Solas put his hands on his hips with a raised eyebrow; "What _are_ you doing?"

"There's something up there," Fareld said, pointing to the mountain; "Bull was helping me see what it was."

The Qunari reached up and helped Fareld down, which meant the boy had to balance both feet on his hands as he was carefully lowered. Dorian felt as though he was about to have a heart attack. Bryce wasn't much better.

"Fareld, do you know how dangerous that is?" he asked, his arms folded over his chest; "You could have fallen and snapped your neck."

"Bull let me!"

"Yes, but knowing you, you probably talked him into it," the Inquisitor gave him a stern look, but after a few seconds he smiled, daring to ruffle the boy's hair; "What is it you two found, then?"

Bull approached them, giving an apologetic, somewhat awkward nod to both Dorian and Bryce; "We're not sure. Fareld thinks it might be a weapon."

"A weapon?" Blackwall said; "Well, it's worth having a look if it's a weapon."

"We have to get to the city," Dorian said; "After our run-in with the Templars, do you really want to risk being caught out in the open again?"

Solas as ever spoke in a purely speculative manner; "Another weapon at our disposal couldn't hurt, but we've spent a lot of time travelling already."

"Weapons are easy to come by," Fareld said; "But there hasn't been a battle in this area for at least fifty years. If it is a weapon, it's probably very old and very valuable."

"The kid's got a mercantile mind," the Qunari added; "Some gold would do nicely when we reach the city. Generally filling up our reserves, repairing things we've broken or replacing what we've lost…"

Fareld looked up at them with inscrutable eyes. The decision fell to Bryce to make.

He glanced first at Dorian, and then at the group. Then, he cast his eyes down to Fareld. The boy had become good at guarding his inner thoughts. As he stared into those green eyes, he saw something of his mage father reflected there; a strength of character that could face even the toughest trials.

"Alright," he sighed, unfolding his arms; "We'll go have a look."

Fareld turned and pointed in the direction of the ridge; "There's a place we can climb up around there. In the last battle here, the Magisters lined up all of their marksmen at the time on that ridge. It went awfully – no one could see through the trees and enemies were hard to hit. They still managed to defend themselves, though."

As a team, they went forward. Their camp had nothing important inside. There were the last dregs of deer left over from last night's dinner, but no more than enough to feed Legionnaire.

They found a small ledge whereupon they could climb and move up the ridge. There was a part that became treacherously narrow and, despite himself, Dorian reached behind him to make sure Fareld was still balanced. The boy of course stood between him and Solas; if he toppled, both of them would risk their lives to save him.

The trek was slow but steady. When finally the ridge expanded again to become more of a path, Bryce led them forward with more speed, and soon enough they came to the glinting thing that had caught Fareld and Bull's eyes.

"Well…" the Inquisitor said; "It's not a weapon."

"What is it?" he looked over his shoulder; "A…rock?"

"Close."

The man bent down and picked it up. To the team he brandished the shiny object; a strange rock-like thing with mirrored sides, and jagged edges that seemed to suggest it was one part of a whole piece.

"How did I not think of that?" Bull said as he looked at it, a smile on his face; "A shard. I should've known."

"A shard of what?" Fareld asked.

"It can be used to forge armour," Dorian explained; "Bryce searched for them a lot when we were battling the Breach. Strange to find one in Tevinter, though…"

"That means there are probably more around here." The Inquisitor said, giving it to Fareld to tuck away with Legionnaire. "We'll keep our eyes open. If we find any more, we'll take them with us."

Fareld put it away with a smile, nudging a disgruntled Legionnaire to make room for it.

"So, onwards to the city," Dorian said; "Bryce and Fareld first."


	10. Discoveries of the Mad and Heartless

They stepped through the village with a cautious air. Fareld had his bow in his hands, prepped for if they were attacked, and some way behind him Dorian and Solas stood with staves at the ready. Bull and Blackwall were side-by-side, brothers in arms, as in front of them Bryce crept forwards, none daring to call out in case of rousing an ambush.

The village was empty. There were stone walls around the small collection of houses, the houses themselves made of wood and brick foundations. Gardens at one time overflowing with vegetables were destroyed, their fences broken, akin to the windows in each home, glass scattered on the floor like tiny knives. Doors were forced open and some lay broken on the ground. The interiors they could see were ruthlessly destroyed, either with the furniture bent and broken, or valuables thrown on the floor and pictures smashed.

Fareld wondered how an entire village could exist without his knowledge. It was never mentioned in any map, atlas or history book he read. As he held his bow in front of him, he wondered if the place was ignored due to location, or because it had too small and irrelevant a people to be of any import.

"Fareld, stay close!" he heard Bryce say behind him, but in true fashion his orders went unheeded. There was something suffocating about the atmosphere that made him yearn to investigate.

Bull looked at the humble homes, the modest gardens and the evident destruction of both. In the dirt there were trampled beads, dolls and other children's toys, all of relatively low quality, but which tugged at his heart more than he cared to admit.

"What happened here?" Solas asked; "An entire village, gone?"

"Attacked," Dorian corrected him; "and if it weren't for their penchant of burning everything, I'd blame the Templars."

Fareld saw a home thrust up against one of the walls. Its door was ajar, just enough to be noticed, but not so much that the interior could be seen. He pulled an arrow back and moved forward.

"We have no idea who or what did this," the Inquisitor reminded them.

"True. We should investigate before we draw conclusions."

Bull shook his head; "What's the point of denying the obvious? It was a bandit raid. Fareld told us these Templars tend to burn everything: Obviously, this isn't them."

The boy in question continued to creep forward. He could see that the window had been blacked out, and his heels raised until he stood on his toes, ready to sprint if need be.

Dorian sighed; "Whoever these people were, I hope they had a quick death. Bandits can be evil bastards; I wholly prefer the type that steal and leave without too much fuss."

"There were children here," Bryce pointed out, though not in an unkind way, as he only felt he needed to tell Dorian before came across his lover the toys himself.

The mage turned. He saw the trampled toys on the ground, quiet memorials for little lost lives, and his eyes softened.

"Oh, Maker…"

Fareld used his arrow and bow to open the door. It was a light thing, made out of splintered wood and with a small (blacked out) glass window that sat above the polished brass knocker. Inside, there was darkness. He could see little apart from strange, shapeless black mounds, and quietly he approached them, still ready with his bow.

A thousand theories ran through his mind: _Furniture? Clothes? Dogs? Loot? What is this?_

Solas crouched down to pick up one of the dolls. It fit in his palm and long fingers, and one of its little patchy arms fell as he lifted it, its yarn-like hair splayed out until the tips just fell over the edge of his fingers.

"Who could kill someone so young?" he asked not to anyone in particular. His voice was almost speculative, but in a despondent, gloomy manner.

"This kind of people don't value life," Blackwall spat; "They'd cut their own child's throat if they thought there was some gold in it."

Fareld lowered his bow when he decided the mounds weren't going to move or attack. He went to the window, which he cleaned, and for a moment watched as the bleak white light filtered in to lighten the room.

The furniture had been pushed to the edges of the house. There were dust marks where the assailants had shoved, pushed and hauled every piece, some of which were stacked on top of another, and another. There was a single mantelpiece where a portrait of a family was left untouched. Fareld went to it and picked it up.

It was an ordinary setup; a father, a mother, three daughters and a son. All of them looked well-fed and happy. Kind eyes looked at one another, and in an instant Fareld could feel all that he'd missed in his own childhood, with his mother so far away and his father…

He nudged Legionnaire out of the way, placing the portrait beside the shard. He would keep it as a memento. Whoever those people were, their lives deserved to be remembered; their death, more so.

With a slight hesitation, he turned to inspect the mounds.

"It doesn't look like there's much left," Bull said; "It'd be dangerous to set up camp here."

"And disrespectful," Bryce added, with a meaningful glance cast over his shoulder.

"Yeah, that too. We need to keep moving towards the capital. If we're lucky-"

They were interrupted by a terrible scream. Each man turned, and from out of one of the houses Fareld staggered, soon to stumble to his hands and knees in the patch of garden below and vomit.

Dorian was the first to run over to him. His son wretched as he fell to his knees beside him, stroking his back despite himself, and with murmured, soothing words he did his best to calm him down.

Bull looked at him in shock; "Damn it, kid – what did you see?"

There were more wretches, more murmurs, and more failed heaves before Fareld managed to choke out; "_People_!"

Bull, Blackwall and Solas went to go and inspect the house while the Inquisitor stayed behind, partly to tend to the boy, and partly to keep watch for that still-possible ambush.

When the others staggered out, their faces were white. Solas sat down and rested his back against one of the garden posts, staring out into the distance with a haunted look in his eyes.

"For Maker's sake, what did you _see_?" Dorian barked when none spoke.

"There's…" Bull searched for the words; "Fareld…I'm so sorry…"

"What was it?!"

Blackwall was the one who replied; "It's a massacre. All the people from the village. Children too."

Dorian's face went white as he realised what his son had seen. In that moment, he wanted to hold him, to guard him from those horrors and erase them from his mind, but instead he continued to rub Fareld's back, his action now done more on auto-pilot.

"It was the Templars," Solas said; "The Templars did this."

"How do you know?"

"They left us a message," it seemed for a moment tears would prick the elf's eyes; "They used…they used blood."

Bryce, who despite the bile rising in his throat knew they needed to leave, found it within himself to ask; "And what did it say?"

"It said: 'We will crush you with the rest of Tevinter.'"


	11. A Quick Dalliance in the Fade

Dorian wasn't quite sure where he was.

He gazed at the dimly lit walls covered in mould, with wall sconces attached that were encrusted in dirt. The candlelight that flickered within gave him a little sight. Thrust up against the mould was an old bed, rickety and unsafe, which had but a collection of sheets on top that almost begged to be washed. The pillow against the splintered headboard was thin; such a dismal thing, he thought, as he imagined a cockroach scuttling across it.

The air was thick with the smell of blood. He turned and saw a small chair in the corner, half-hidden in shadow, whereon there was propped a woman cradling a bundle of blankets. Her eyes were soft, her skin pale, and all of a sudden he realised who she was:

Mari Pullo Evodius.

He blinked twice. That a ghost could come and haunt him made him question his lucidity; had he somehow given over his mind to the insane?

Just as he turned his head to peer at the corners of the room, hoping for a door, he heard her speak.

"Oh, my little boy," her voice was weak, but still held to it that angelic tone she had been so known for; "My little boy. Here you are. How could I have dreaded this? You're perfect."

In her arms there sounded a little cry. Dorian's heart ached. Was this a trick from the Maker? Had He decided to torment the mage with what he missed, and what could never be seen again?

Mari held the baby closer to her. Her nose nuzzled down into the soft fabric, and despite the darkness Dorian could see tears in her eyes. They reflected the faint candlelight that oozed from the walls, like a thick miasma in this begrimed room.

"There, there, little one. I know it's scary. But we don't have to be afraid now – not now we're together." She assured him; "It's going to be alright. I'll take care of you. We don't need anyone but each other."

The mage wanted to step forward and pluck his son from her arms. He wanted to cradle him and assure him that he would be there, that he would be a good father and a better role model. But his feet were almost frozen into place, and his tongue was stilled by some unheard of magic.

The bags under Mari's eyes were prominent, but somehow in the glow of motherhood they weren't the first thing to catch his eyes. Dorian saw in them such unfathomable love, and yet he understood it. He loved Fareld too. He loved that baby in her arms just as much as she did, and he was denied knowing he existed.

"I'm going to call you Dorian," she muttered; "Dorian Fareld Evodius."

His eyes went wide. Suddenly, he could move his feet, but the moment he went towards her the mage was thrown into another scenario, and the room around him melted away.

There stood around him now a brighter, more luxurious home. Beautiful portraits of different faces hung on the walls, all Elven, and he could hear a thrilled little voice squealing from a large, gold-edged archway before him. The walls were adorned with baby blue wall paper with birds patterned on, and the chandelier was as grand as the ones he imagined his father would own.

A large staircase led upwards to a small platform, marked off by polished balustrades. He could see furniture grand and glorious – furniture that would cost a slave at least a year's worth of wages, and a Magister's minute.

"Dorian!"

He turned when he heard the name. Before him he could see a little boy running, barely a toddler, who with a bright grin looked the spitting image of himself. Once more, his heart burst in love. It was a strange thing to feel; a faint voice within told him that this was his son, his little Fareld, before the world had jaded him.

Fareld went to the stairs, which he attempted to climb. The first step proved too much of a challenge for him; he tumbled back before he could reach the summit, but like the most daring adventurer he pulled himself back up, ready to try again.

Behind him, a dishevelled and slightly doleful Mari appeared. Her hair was wrapped in a tight bun, but such was the love in her eyes that she still seemed young and beautiful. Her neck, so long and elegant, was marked by bruises, and a horrible image of some sordid deal went through Dorian's mind as she lifted their son to her hip.

Fareld as a toddler was an adorable sight. His eyes were large and green, his smile bright, and even though there was an undeniable melancholy in the air, he was not yet affected by it. The mage wondered for a moment how this adorable, bouncing toddler had grown into the world-weary son he knew.

Mari looked into his eyes with a smile; "Baby, you have to stay here from now on, alright? My friends are going to take care of you while Mummy works away."

Fareld's eyes grew puzzled. His words fell out in a sort of conglomeration, but even Dorian could hear the main question:

"Why, Mummy?"

"Well," she said; "Because I have to go and earn some money, and I can't bring you with me. Besides, you have that big boy bow now, don't you? So you can practice every day and protect yourself while I'm gone."

"But-"

She silenced him with a kiss to the forehead and a warm hug; "It's alright, Darling. We'll see each other all the time. I won't leave you behind forever – I promise."

Once more, the scene melted around him. Dorian stood in the middle of a training ground, his heart aching, as he glanced at young men joking with each other near the walls and more men barking at them to work.

"Fareld!" he heard a call, to which he turned his head and saw his son standing beside a great beast of a man. The boy had lost the joyous spark in his eyes, replaced now by seriousness, and he had grown some into his black clothes. His hair was in the same style as Dorian's. What he lacked – namely, the moustache – did nothing to diminish their resemblance.

The boy readied his bow to some target in the distance, which the mage couldn't see.

"Yes, sir!" he yelled.

"Hit that target, or you'll be the one staying behind tonight!"

The scene changed again. Dorian cried out – he wanted to see what happened – but instead found himself in a completely different place, which a completely different feel to it.

There was a green fog all around him. So dense was it that he struggled to look beyond, struggled to cry out, for his words would only stretch a certain distance and then they would fall flat.

"Bryce?" he called; "Fareld? Anyone? Can anyone hear me?!"

There were no replies. Not until he saw some dark shape in the mist and, despite his wariness, began to move towards it.

"Hello?" he said, relieved to see another, however vague the shape was; "Can you help me? Where are we? What _is_ this place?"

There was silence. As he approached, Dorian saw the thing morph into something familiar; something small, and which resembled him.

"It doesn't matter anymore," he heard the voice of Fareld, though with a metallic edge.

"Fareld?" he gave a great breathe of relief; "Fareld, come on. We have to find a way out of here. Come with me."

A mocking, sad laugh responded; "Why? What point is there? I'm all alone now."

"No you're not. You have me."

"Do I?" he turned. Dorian recoiled at the sight of his face, covered as it was in Red Lyrium, the bow in his hands pulsating with the stuff. "Do I have you? You left me behind! You left my mother to her fate!"

"No, no – I didn't-"

"And now here we stand, on the edge of history, and still you can't see what you did! Let the world burn!" he held out a small match, and was suddenly drenched in some sort of oil.

Dorian started towards him, but once more his feet were stuck.

Fareld's glowing red eyes glared deeply into his as he rumbled, in a voice that was not his own; "Let everything burn."

The match fell. In a second the boy had become something like a roaring fireball. His screams were terrible, and as Dorian cried out for mercy, for the Maker to end his pain and let his son finally go to the Golden City, he saw the child's screaming face engulfed by a flame.

Dorian awoke. Around him, his breath curled in white smoke, and in his arms he held Fareld, who had his eyes shut to the world. Beside Fareld there lay Bryce; the Inquisitor's arm was draped over the boy's body like some protective shield. The mage's eyes softened and his mouth twitched upwards in a smile.

His son had not spoken since their village discovery, and both Dorian and Bryce decided that they would push their luck. Some time after dinner they had gathered the boy up to lie him in their tent, Legionnaire close behind him. It was amazing that Fareld didn't protest. Instead, the fox had lain at his side and he, tired after his ordeal and subsequent throwing up, fell asleep.

The mage stroked his son's face. Then, he sat up, looking out at the darkness beyond them. They had set up their camp on a hill; it overlooked a beautiful lake wherein they had washed, gathered roots and refilled their decanters. Soon, they would reach Minrathous, the capital city, where phase two of Fareld's quest would end and the inevitable war began.

"Mhmph?" Fareld opened one eye and Dorian stroked his face; "Mother?"

"No, Fareld," he soothed; "It's your father. Go back to sleep."

A flicker danced in Fareld's eyes, but it was too sleepy to hold any true feeling; "Father…"

Without warning, the boy lifted his head and kissed Dorian's cheek; "You're not that bad…"

Then, he was asleep. Dorian smiled at him, his eyes going softer, and stroked his face with all the more tenderness.

"I won't leave again," he promised; "I'll never leave you again."


	12. Minrathous in Spring

In an attempt to shorten the amount of time he spent walking, Dorian asked Bull, the stronger of the warriors, to carry Fareld on his back.

He did it gladly. The boy, still too shell-shocked to argue, let both of his hands rest on his former enemy's back and laid his head between his shoulder-blades, with his eyes directed outwards to Tevinter. Bryce worried that somewhere deep within, Fareld had lost whatever innocence he had left.

Beyond them, the team could see Minrathous. It was a vague shape on the horizon, but with each step there became evident high walls, many guards, and a few merchant carts being led into and out of the city. Soon their travels would come to an end, and their battle plans could take shape.

Fareld's fiery passion to beat the Templars had been lit anew, yet so too had his fear. They would ruthlessly slaughter a dozen children for convenience – what would they do to him, should they capture and punish him for his role against them? Images of torture flashed through his mind. His lips thinned until they were no more than a faint slash, and his bottom lip quivered as he gathered whatever courage he had left.

"Minrathous looks busy," the Inquisitor commented when finally they reached the gates. There were many merchants there, who without authorisation to enter the city had set up outside of it, and now through desperation touted their wares to the travellers. Wide, bright eyes looked up at them, words without meaning were said, and all around Fareld could hear exaggerated truths and outright lies, from tonics and potions to weapons and armour.

Dorian huffed a laugh; "Busy? This is the capital of the Imperium. Wait until we're inside. 'Busy' is an understatement."

It was then that they heard a shout above them. Their eyes were cast up only to be confronted with many bows, most of which were aimed at Bull. The guards all wore matching armour with helmets covering their faces, but it was only one of these helmed heads that spoke to the group.

An apparently slight man, the guard, who leaned over the wall as if he were about to jump, barked; "What business do you have here? Qunari aren't welcome."

"We're here to speak with the Magisters," Bryce announced, not a quiver in his voice; "We were asked to come."

"By who?" there was a snort of derision in his voice.

"Me!"

The guards pulled their bowstrings back as if they thought the new voice might be an enemy. Fareld's head rose until it was visible behind Bull's back, his eyes narrowed and his mouth set in a hard frown.

"Fareld?" the guard said; "What in the Maker's name are you doing with a Qunari?"

"Let us in," the boy rolled his eyes as he jumped to the ground; "We have to speak to the Magisters."

"We're under strict orders not to-"

"Do you know who this is?" he interrupted, gesturing to Bryce; "This is the Inquisitor – the Herald of Andraste. He wants to speak to the Magisters. I know none of us want to argue with the Herald."

There was a long moment of pause. In it, the group realised just how far the wall stretched, and their faces twitched in slight amazement. At a distance it would seem that the entire horizon was dominated by Minrathous, and the dozens of guards that protected it.

Then, there came the unmistakable sound of chains clinking.

The iron-gate rose. One of the guards – a taller man – nodded to Fareld and his group, ushering them inside. He wore the crest of Minrathous on his armour; a high honour, the boy thought, which meant that the man behind that helmet was his mentor Nirornor.

"It's been a while," he said as they wandered inside, the merchants held back by arrows and threats; "We thought you went to another post, Fareld."

The boy's mouth twitched; "My duty to protect us called me away. I worry for how the Magisters will take my return."

"You've proven your worth. It's more than can be said for their children." Nirornor's eyes sparked with a certain mischief, and when he patted Fareld's head Dorian felt a twinge of jealousy within him. "It's good to have you home, son. I trust you'll take the Herald?"

"As if it were my born duty," he replied, ducking his head in a show of respect.

They followed him through the city. Within the gates, there were many things happening; merchants stood in the wide clearing that functioned as a marketplace, and the streets that led away from it were narrow. The houses were bright and colourful, some not so, and with Fareld's guidance they went from the very bottom of Minrathous to some large building at the summit of it all, as if the entire city were built on a raised platform.

"This is where the Magisters meet," the boy explained the closer they came to it. It was an extravagant building, decadent in its way, with banners and bright colours and an assortment of flowers that lined the cream coloured archways leading in, themselves shut in signal of a meeting. Unlike in the residential areas this place had wide paths and high gates around it, which Fareld was able to get them through without too much trouble. The paths were even in a different colour to the paths found in the areas they had walked through.

Bull grunted; "These streets aren't Qunari-friendly, are they?"

Fareld laughed, though he had been almost embarrassed at how his fellow Tevinter stared at Bull, as if they thought in one moment he might spring at them and devour their children. It was then that he realised he might have thought the same thing. Was it his travels that had made him think differently? Hadn't he seen Bull as more a friend than threat those past few weeks?

"Qunari aren't considered our closest allies," he chuckled.

Dorian held Bryce's arm; "I almost forgot how colourful everything is here. Almost gives you a headache."

"I can see the appeal," the Inquisitor replied.

"More of those merchants were selling gold and platinum than they were anything useful," Solas pointed out, to which Blackwall grunted in agreement; "I saw only one produce stall, and it was almost empty."

"Why would ladies buy things to eat? Their servants do it, and they do it early in the morning for breakfast," Dorian said, his voice only slightly mocking; "Minrathous is the hub of all activity for Tevinter. It's also insufferable with its values."

"We must press on," Fareld turned to them when they reached the largest archway, where the doors were firmly shut and there were two guards at each side. They themselves wore crests, high-end armour and held the finest weapons in hand, but either they were told of or recognised the boy's mission, for they made no move to bar them from the Magisters.

"Are we-?"

Fareld sighed; "Once we're inside, let me explain. The Magisters at least know me and have nothing much against me."

"My father's a Magister," Dorian said, with a meaningful glance to the boy; "I could-"

"No. I have to do this. I set out to find you, and now I have to see it through," he replied.

Dorian made to argue, but instead he felt Bryce's hand on his arm and he relented, almost amazed at the courage in his son's voice. To face the Magisters when so young was no easy feat. It was an honour reserved for often the most privileged of boys, and Fareld was by no means privileged.

"What do you mean by 'nothing much against you?'" Solas asked.

"They…know my mother," he replied, yet went no further. Instead, he turned to the guards, taking in a deep breath as he faced the cream doors.

With a wave of his arm, he ushered them inside.


	13. A Price for Loyalty

For all of the colour outside, it surprised the group to see that the inside of the building was rather colourless. There was a single, large room, where inside there sat an assembly of men, some with fat, doughy faces and other with thin, sharp ones, but it seemed few had kept a healthy look about them. Before them there was a large table which wound round the room in a semi-circle, and the faces all peered out from behind it, their sights cast downwards as they stared at Fareld.

There were wall sconces within which torches were held, but so weak was their flame that it barely lit the walls, let alone the floor. A single chandelier was strung above; it acted almost as a spotlight, and as Fareld stood in its orange rays, the shadows dancing across his face as he glanced up at disapproving grimaces, he felt his heart give a great shudder.

Dorian saw his father amongst the Magisters. He sat between a fat and thin pair, who together made him seem all the more normal, and his heart burned when he saw the look that passed across his face. He regarded Fareld, his unknown grandson, as if he were no more than a nuisance – a child to be humoured and not taken seriously.

"Magisters," Fareld knelt on one knee on the ground, the tips of his fingers pressed to the flagstone floor and his head bent downwards; "I come with the Herald-"

"We know who you come with, boy," one voice boomed out from the fatter-faced men; "Our question is, why have you gone against us? Why did you see fit to bring a Qunari to our city?"

Fareld imperceptibly gulped; "I haven't, sirs. I did it for the good of Tevinter."

"We told you we would _not_ be involved in your delusions," Dorian's own father spoke, and the man cast his eyes upwards, glaring at him from afar. Their eyes caught each other. It was in that moment that his father's face changed and he muttered, confused and surprised; "Dorian?"

Halward was a man who loved his son, despite what he had done to him in the past. To see him now glaring, disapproving once more, hurt on levels he couldn't describe.

"Hello, Father," Dorian said; "Surprised to see me?"

"I'm surprised to see the Inquisition here," he replied; "After all, it was only Fareld who came to you."

"Of course we would, especially considering he's my s-"

Fareld's voice cut in to their conversation; "The Inquisition came with me after I told them our troubles. Magisters, I beg you – let no one else die by these Templars' hands!"

"Boy, you're beginning to get on our last nerve. We told you there was nothing to fear. Plagues and bandits wipe out entire villages overnight. Your mother and her people were victims of an attack or a bout; nothing more."

"But they were-"

"Burnt, either so that their sickness wouldn't spread or the bandits left no trace behind."

Bryce stepped forward. He refused to kneel, and for a moment he contemplated bringing the boy up to his feet. He decided it would be something Fareld would later rebuke him for.

"We were attacked by these Templars," he stated, and it seemed he had the entire room listening, for he was the Herald and his deeds had not gone unnoticed; "We came across an entire village killed by them."

"Herald, forgive our disbelief, but Fareld has been adamant that these Templars burn their kills. Tell me – how did you come across a village left virtually intact?"

"They left a message behind for us." Dorian said, and he noticed then that only one Magister had spoken out against Fareld and his belief. He was a fat man at the centre of the table; an Archon pet, perhaps, who wanted nothing to go wrong in Tevinter so they had little to bother their head with.

"Halward, this is your boy, I presume?"

Dorian's father looked at his fellow man; "Yes, it is."

"Dorian Pavus. Rumour has it you abandoned Tevinter for greener pastures. How is it you come back now, in her 'hour of need,' at the request of a child?"

"He's my-"

Fareld raised his head to glare at his father. It was obvious to him that he would have to hold his tongue. Perhaps the new information would do nothing but belittle his fight; Dorian had no idea, but it hurt to have to conceal such news from the Magisters, especially as he felt they had made such progress.

"Fareld crossed hundreds of miles to find us," Bryce went on for him; "Dorian, like the rest, was impressed. And he cares about his homeland more than you know. Your people deserve to live without fear of attack and slaughter."

"Our people are protected by walls."

"And what of those outside of them?" Solas came to the debate; "Those who tend your fields and grind your wheat? Who raise cattle to feed to your children? What are they protected by?"

"The Imperium herself."

The Magister seemed to have no concept of the world beyond him. His eyes were stern and his face sterner, as if by simply answering their questions he'd gone out of his way to accommodate them.

Halward spoke up, though with a cautious air about him; "I think we should listen to them, Kaeso. The Herald came all this way, and claims to have even _fought_ these Templars. Can't there be even the slightest truth to what Fareld's been telling us?"

Fareld took this moment to stand. So abrupt was the action that all the Magisters turned to him, and in seconds he was standing beside Dorian, passion and determination in his eyes.

"I've seen them with my own eyes," he said; "My mother didn't die of a plague or bandit attack, Magister Kaeso! I know it!"

"Settle down, boy. You're grieving. I understand-"

"No, Magister! Grief doesn't make what I'm saying any less true!" he gained either bravery or stupidity; Dorian was more leaning towards the former; "I've seen awful, terrible things; I've fought creatures too big to fight; I've practiced and dedicated myself to my skill; and I've protected the Imperium without question! My words are born out of my love for my people! We mustn't let these Templars gain too much ground, or else we're all doomed."

For a moment, all was quiet. The candlelight flickered behind the Magisters' faces, causing shadows to dance across them, and Dorian felt the urge to reach over and pull his son close to him.

Kaeso, who the team noticed had white, thinning hair to accompany his doughy face, sighed and flicked his hand.

Two guards came out of the shadows. One made a grab for Fareld and caught him, while the other wrenched from the boy his back. Legionnaire who laid within it let out a harsh bark, but was kicked away by the men, and Dorian was held back by a foresight blessed Blackwall.

"Fareld!" he shouted, and above him Halward was yelling:

"What do you think you're doing, Kaeso?!"

"Fareld Evodius: I see you charged with the act of treason, and sentenced to death."

The boy's eyes went wide and he kicked out; "What? No-!"

"Let him go!" Bryce, too, was held by Bull, and both he and his lover fought against their restraints to reach the child. Their attempts proved futile.

"This isn't a trial!" Halward protested, standing from his chair; "Let the boy go!"

Kaeso raised his nose to the sky as he peered at Halward in his periphery; "We mustn't let time-wasters go unpunished, Halward. Be glad it isn't your son going to the dungeon."

The guards began to drag Fareld away. Legionnaire was brought close by Solas, but the fox was barking furiously, his paw limp and lifeless.

Fareld continued to kick out as doors were opened, which seemed to lead to some dark and dingy place beyond – the dungeon, where Tevinter's criminals were left. His shouts were heard all the way through them, and as the doors closed they heard him cry:

"Bryce, Dorian – help me!"

The doors were shut. An unmistakable lock sound followed, and Dorian was released. Both he and the Inquisitor stood in shock for a moment, with the backdrop noise Legionnaire's whimpers, begging for his friend to be returned.

"Fareld is just a boy!" Halward protested again; "His heart's in the right place, even if his mind's not. Do we execute our people so easily, Kaeso? What's the use in us if we're so quick to murder?"

Kaeso flicked his hand in dismissal; "The boy's mother was a slave. He was a fine marksman, but no more."

Dorian's blood boiled as he looked up, and he saw reflect in Halward's eyes his own anger.

"Is that it, then?" the Magister barked; "We kill him because he's not born into high blood? We ignore him, and let him die?"

"He's telling the truth!" Bryce shouted; "By Maker, why won't you listen to him? He's come so far to find us, risked hide and hair to come back, and now you're going to silence him through death? Why can't you see he's more loyal than anyone here?"

"His mother was a slave," Kaeso reminded him; "Fareld would say anything to raise his own status. He's desperate to be recognised for his achievements, but he's no more than a slave boy."

Dorian finally felt what little restraint he had snap; "That boy isn't a slave!"

"Dorian-" Halward was silenced.

"Have you ever looked at him? Can't you see?" Dorian barked; "He's my son!"


	14. Asunder

Dorian and Bryce were led to Halward's office, though neither of them were pleased. The mage spit pure fire, wanting for nothing more than his son to be released, and the Herald, though less emphatic than his lover, made it clear that neither they nor their group would rest until Fareld was returned to them.

The office was more luxurious than the meeting room. The walls were of stone, but there were tapestries on them that made them colourful, and many bookshelves whereon there were a multitude of books, trinkets and gifts. A large portrait of the Pavus family sat above a large fireplace, Dorian included, and as soon as he caught sight of it the mage offered a derisive snort.

Halward sat behind his desk. It was large, made of mahogany, and stacked with all manner of papers, files, documents, quills and inkwells. Parchments were hung on the walls that described the old days, some with inky fingerprints still stained on the edges, and tiny plaques underneath that said what they were, when they were, and by who they were signed.

"Fareld is my grandson?" he said, laying his hand on top of the desk. His words cut through Dorian's diatribe. The mage looked at him, paused as though he were collecting his thought, and then snorted again.

"Could you not figure it out?" he said; "He looks exactly like me. And now your colleagues, so-called 'defenders of the Imperium,' are planning to cut his head off."

Dorian leant against the edge of the desk as he spoke. His palms dug into the edge and created creases in his skin, but such was his anger that he ignored the pain.

Bryce stood beside him. He too had a certain fire in his eyes, but like before when he met Halward he was more concerned for Dorian; less so was he concerned for how he looked in the Magister's eyes. With a tender hand the Inquisitor touched his lover's shoulder, muttering soft consolations in his ear.

Halward reached for a small picture on his desk; "Yes, I always thought you two looked quite similar. But I thought it was a trick of the mind. Fareld has always been so…"

"So what?" Dorian growled; "Such a good puppy to the Imperium?"

"So quiet."

The mage once more was silent. Beside him, his lover stepped forward, pulling his hands from the desk as if afraid he would hurt them.

"Quiet?" Bryce asked. "How so?"

Halward clasped the picture in his hands with soft affection in his eyes. It was of Dorian as a child. His features were the same as Fareld, but his expression was not. Compared, the boy had a more austere countenance, wore an eternal frown, and that lively spark in his eyes had been put out long before its time.

"He was always so distant from everyone. He had very few friends, and those he did have were all in the guard. I worried for him. But we Magisters…we had more important things to be concerned about."

Dorian squeezed his eyes shut; "You always do."

"Then, he went missing. Soon after his mother died, if I recall. We thought he'd left to find proof of his delusion and died somewhere out in the forests."

"And no one went after him?" Bryce demanded. It was amazed him that, after the length they had travelled, the foes they faced, Fareld had managed to survive it all on his own. Even with his knowledge and marksmanship, it was a feat to be marvelled.

Halward sighed; "Some of us made the case that we needed his skills, which far surpass most boys his age, but Kaeso was adamant. He told us Fareld had lost his mind, and we needed to look to the future. We thought we would never see him again."

"But he survived long enough to find us," Dorian said; "and even with us telling you it's true, he's been put to death."

"I have no idea what's going through Kaeso's head. Fareld wasn't standing trial, and none of us were there to sentence him."

"Well he seemed to do a good job of it," Bryce said, folding his arms over his chest.

"I assure you, I'll do everything in my power to have him freed," Halward promised; "I won't stand for this. Even if Fareld weren't my grandson, he's still a loyal citizen of Tevinter, and a good marksman. All he wants is to fight against the Imperium's enemies. He deserves to live."

"He's just a _boy_, Halward. Fareld isn't some creature to let loose into battle. Optimising his skills for the point of war is just as cruel as executing him." The Inquisitor argued, for it was true.

"You know he won't let us fight these Templars alone." The man said as he stood.

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," Dorian replied, drumming his fingers against the desk; "Right now, we're more concerned about saving his life."

Halward stood and gestured to the door; "We _must_ convince Kaeso to release him. Without his agreement, none of the Magisters can help."

"I thought the Archon was the one who decided things around here?"

"Yes, he is," Dorian told him; "but he's also a busy man, and so mundane things such as sentencing and execution are dealt with by the lesser ranks. Kaeso must be in his pocket."

"We're all in the Archon's pocket, else we wouldn't have a job." Halward led them from the room and through the halls, which were wide and winding things, so alike that Bryce felt it must have taken years to memorise the layout.

Much like the meeting room, these halls were bare, if not for the occasional table stood at sporadic points, holding what seemed to be an ink quill and a register. The Inquisitor wondered at these things, but Halward ignored them. Perhaps it was a practice only partaken when they were having formal guests, or even a reference to some old tradition long since gone.

When finally they reached the door that led to Kaeso's office, the Magister paused.

"Hurry up," Dorian half-spat, half-ordered, his arms folded across his chest; "I'm in no mood to wait."

Bryce held his arm; "Relax. Fareld is safe, for now. Let your father-"

"I was just preparing myself," Halward suddenly announced, cutting the Inquisitor off mid-sentence; "Kaeso is a powerful mage, and he keeps a barrier around his office that weakens all near it. We all have it. But his is…"

"I thought that practice became illegal? Something about it not 'fostering confidence' in the common-folk."

"Dorian, you out of all people should know that legality is a grey area within these walls."

"I forgot – you Magisters are only clean on record."

Halward sighed as he knocked on the door; "I'm afraid you're more right than you know."

The knock sounded, and from within they could hear a dark voice; something gruff, but most definitely human. It was accompanied by several more, some of them ethereal, and Dorian looked over at Bryce with a raised eyebrow.

"Go away!" barked the human - Kaeso; "Leave me alone!"

"Kaeso, we have to speak with you." Halward reached down to turn the handle, and found he could do so with ease.

The door was unlocked, which to him meant that whatever went on inside was not so important that it had to be kept secret. It swung open on well-oiled hinges and Halward stepped in.

"It's about my…What in the world?!"

Halward froze. Dorian and Bryce were shocked into silence. All around them throbbed with Red Lyrium – the walls were encrusted with the mineral, the air pulsated, and in every breath they took they could almost see red dust encircling them, threatening to enter their lungs and fill them with their infection.

Kaeso had in his hand a familiar amulet. His wild, red eyes turned, his doughy face roared, and as if he had lost all semblance of humanity he held the charm in the air, thrusting it out as he muttered something dark and archaic. It sounded to Dorian's ears like an ancient spell; and it was so familiar to him that he took the time to wonder where he'd heard it before.

A beam of green energy erupted from his hands. So violent was the explosion that his desk flew to the side and smashed into the Lyrium, and whatever else was close to him went soaring through the air. Halward, who stood in the direct line of fire, stepped out of the way – and in doing so put his son and Bryce on the frontline instead.

Dorian equipped his staff, screaming; "No!"

That was all he recalled before he had reflected the spell. The world around him faded into black; he could hear nothing. There was one mad moment where he thought he had died protecting Bryce and had entered some sort of eternal limbo. But then, slowly, his eyes creaked open, and he realised the entire office had transformed into something else.

He was lying on his stomach when he awoke. His face was pressed to cool stone, and he glanced about him to see hanging iron chandeliers, Red Lyrium shards scattered about table tops, and a dozen weapons left in some barrels near a rusted iron door. Beside him laid Bryce. The man had yet to come to, which gave Dorian more time to inspect their surroundings.

Sitting up, he realised that they were in a fairly large room; large enough to have a fireplace in the corner, unlit for some time, and several more chandeliers next to the one he saw initially. The tables were in fact long and pushed end-to-end, with a sort of queue-like feel to it. The air hummed with energy, but it was muted. It felt as if the Lyrium had been there for a long time.

The Inquisitor's eyes opened. Even coming from darkness, it took him a moment to adjust to the dim lighting, blinking dust motes from his eyes as he sat up. Dorian reached over to take his hand – a comforting gesture that was met with a smile.

"Are you alright?" Bryce asked, voice soft.

"Fine. I just…that was a surprise." He glanced once more at their surroundings and sighed; "I think we went forward in time again."

"What?! Then this is a disaster!"

"Red Lyrium," he noted, tilting his head towards it; "It's more than a disaster. It's exactly like when we were shot forward the last time. Who knows where everyone is?"

"Dorian…Fareld."

The mage's eyes widened ever so slightly, and somewhere within him he felt that oh so familiar stab of panic. He stood, forgetting his vertigo, before he went to the door, where he hoped on the other side they would find no enemies.

"We have to find him," he said; "Maker, Bryce, we have to find Fareld and the others."

The Inquisitor stepped forward and took his hand, which was clasped around the door's great handle. He too was scared for what had happened to their loved ones. But they had been in that situation before; there was a chance to get back if they found Kaeso, if he could be found. He vowed to keep a level head until they had definitive proof there was nothing to be done.

"We have no idea how far in time we are," he reminded him as their hands clasped together; "This could be decades or months in the future. Don't lose your head. Fareld could be…"

Dorian winced; "I know. He could be long dead. But this isn't the future; it doesn't have us in it. We have to find our way back. But we have to find _him_, too!"

"If we can," he promised; "If we can find any of them, we will."


	15. Future Bound in Blood and Warfare

They had soon discovered that where they awoke was in fact the Magisters' building in Tevinter, after Red Lyrium had been allowed to take its hold.

They found this out through papers scattered along tables and on ruined pillars, once so tall they stretched upwards to the roof, itself now with chunks missing to reveal a blood-red sky. The clouds themselves were stained with the gory shade of war. Dorian cast his eyes upwards to see that people's homes floated through the air on levitating soil, and he wondered what sort of magic had been let loose on Thedas, if it were powerful enough to rip entire settlements from the ground.

The building had fallen into disarray under whatever government had taken charge. Not least the roof was in need of repair, the floor was missing flagstones, and what few remained were cracked as if some heavy weight had been dragged across them. Blood trails led from different doors, the splatters too much to be made from a child. That gave Dorian hope, as they rounded the crystals that seemed to grow at every corner, that somehow Fareld lived and he existed on the edge of all this madness.

"Look at this," Bryce said when they entered something that looked akin to an old kitchen, albeit now with weapons and anvils scattered all over the place rather than cookery tools. Long tables were placed in a haphazard manner around the room, themselves stuffed full of broken blades and ruined crossbows. The Inquisitor gestured to a piece of paper left on one of the tables, and Dorian lifted it to read.

"After two years of successful dominion," his voice took on a mock dramatic air; "following the deaths of the false-Herald Bryce Trevelyan and his consort, Dorian Pavus, the high priest Kaeso asks all living people to flock to the castle to once more celebrate all that has been given in their destruction."

"It's been at least two years."

"Yes," he acknowledged, turning the paper over as though it might give him more answers; "and Kaeso's obviously made a nice little niche for himself. Cosy up to the big names and find yourself rich."

There were few enemies. Those they came across were lesser beings – Templars contracted in through blood or other means, and who now stood loyal to tyrants. They made quick work of them. Their concerns mounted when they discovered that the dungeons had been destroyed and those few that were taken prisoner were long since executed or had died in failed escape attempts.

"Solas, Bull, Blackwall…" he recited to Bryce, hands on his hips as together they stared at the collapsed staircase leading down to the prison cells, the double doors having been ripped from their hinges. Dorian fancied it was to keep the Templars in line, at one time.

"Do you think any of them made it?" the Inquisitor asked.

"It's hard to tell. Based on evidence, I'd say yes. But no two situations are ever the same."

They went on.

Soon, it seemed clear to them that no one had made it out alive – that in two years all had been found, captured and destroyed. Templars ruled the world. Whoever they served was now the main religion, and the Thedas they knew and loved had been destroyed.

Their wanderings took them into a deep chamber, wherein half-demolished balustrades wound round the upper level, and whatever stairs might have led to them had been destroyed and replaced by ladders. Large pillars once so grand and noble were reduced to rubble; it was in this that Templars wandered with high grade armour, and Dorian had been too quick to enter the room to evade notice.

"Halt!" there came a booming voice from the largest one, who aimed his bow. Dorian and Bryce had fallen to hide behind the rubble. Around them, they could hear the slow approaching footsteps of heavily armoured men, and in his head the mage prayed that, in death, he might be reunited with his sure dead son.

Then, a miracle.

Bryce had just pulled Dorian in for a hug when a flash of light caught their eyes. If they weren't so still in fear they would have looked up at it. Instead, it moved until it had caught the Templars', and one by one they heard the whistles of soaring arrows, followed by choked grunts.

The whistles were loud and abrasive. They grated on Dorian's ears, but so sure was he that soon they would be turned on them that he daren't look up, instead burying his head in Bryce's shoulder. Their final few moments would be spent together. To fear death now, when it was so prominent around them…it seemed pointless to do.

Then, silence. It seemed to stretch on for an endless amount of time. In it, Bryce dared to move his head from Dorian's hair, and soon the room blurred into vision, weak light pouring in from previously unnoticed torches lined on the walls.

"Who are you?" they heard a voice and the drawing back of an arrow; "Show yourself."

With hesitation, they both did so. In the echo of the room, it was heard to hear who exactly was talking to them – but by their voice and manner of speaking, it was clearly no Templar.

"Turn…" the voice warned as they faced the wall. They once more did so, slowly, slowly revealing the room in all its tattered glory. The torches threw out dirty light and the entire place was in disarray, with red crystals pulsating everywhere and malevolent energy humming beneath their feet.

The bow lowered. The face behind it rose, and both men felt as if their hearts were lifted.

For, standing there in a tattered cloak and clothes, was Fareld.

The boy had been through much, it seemed. His face had been cut multiple times, his mouth and chin area had blood encrusted around it, and his eyes – his eyes were the most telling part of all. They were hardened by the plight of many battles, and the way his hair fell, now too long and lank to style, made his sharp cheekbones seem all the more thin, as if for a long time he'd been without food. Below his were heaped the Templars, now all dead and with arrows protruding through their sight-slots, fired with fatal precision. Around his neck on a thin chain, there hung a white fox tail.

"Dorian…?" he said; "Bryce? Is that…"

Despite himself, the mage let out a half-laugh, half-sob, and nodded. Fareld threw his bow up onto his back and charged at them, catapulting himself into both their arms.

His face buried into his father's stomach as hot tears burst from his eyes, his voice choked; "I thought you were dead! I thought you were all dead!"

"No, no," the Inquisitor soothed and stroked his hair; "Kaeso shot us into the future. We're not dead. We're here now."

"You weren't here!" he cried; "You didn't see it! You weren't here when Blackwall died or when Bull was killed or when Solas got shot! Not even Legionnaire! Everyone died and I was left alone! I was all alone!"

Dorian pulled him from their small embrace and knelt in front of him. The boy was indeed a lot thinner; he could fit his entire hand around his wrist, and even then he had to tighten his fingers. Fareld's wide eyes looked into his in a way he'd never seen before – tearful, hurt, and vulnerable. It occurred to him that his reaction was born out of countless hours spent wishing for them home, and despite their terrible situation the mage smiled.

"You won't be alone now," he promised; "We're here to make everything go back. We need to go home, when you were first put in prison. But first we have to find Kaeso."

"Kaeso works in the main chamber. I don't go there. Too many guards." He held his hand out to steady himself on Dorian's shoulder; "He always has a lot of guards."

"How have you stayed alive all this time?" Bryce asked. It was absurd to him that his teammates, who he hoped he would soon return to and change their future, would die before Fareld, a boy with little real war experience.

Fareld trembled; "Please don't…"

"It's alright," Dorian assured him, bringing him down to sit on a small rock; "You won't have to do it anymore. Just, tell us."

He sighed. The boy could feel some heavy weight lift from his shoulders and his hand rose to clasp at his fox tail; the only piece of his past life he had left. All of those terrible things he'd seen, all of those things he'd done…Dorian seemed adamant they could take it all away.

And so, with a hesitant voice, he explained.

"The others…they came to get me. I was going to be executed the next day, and Halward saved me. He sacrificed himself to the guards so we could escape. We travelled, for a while. But then the Templars…" he trembled; "Andraste, the Templars…"

"Easy," Bryce soothed; "Take your time." Beside him, Dorian's eyes flooded with tears. Of course, in the final moments of his life, his father had to play the hero.

"One by one, we all started dying. Tevinter fell and after that, so did everywhere else. Suddenly Qunari weren't the worst thing to face anymore. Blackwall died saving me from an attack – he was stabbed in the throat – and Bull died when he tried to help some children escape a village fire. Solas and I were the only ones left. Legionnaire was too ill to go on. I had to put him down."

The mage drew him into a hug. Fareld began to cry, but through his tears he fought to tell his story.

"Solas died last. We were almost at New Haven…but it's all gone. Bryce, the Inquisition's gone. Cullen, Josephine, Leliana, Varric; everyone's dead. I'm…I'm sorry."

The Inquisitor's lips thinned. His heart ached to think of all those friends he had lost, but he vowed that hellish reality would not become true. To give encouragement to Fareld, he nodded for him to go on.

"We had no idea where to turn, so we found some place to set up camp and think. That's where he was shot. I escaped. I always escaped…"

He said it with such bitterness and hatred in his voice that Dorian wanted to tell him that the entire team would have worked to keep him alive, had they thought the pair truly were killed. It would be their final gesture to their fallen comrades. Their ultimate sacrifice.

"How have you ended up here?" Bryce asked after a long while of silence. He almost feared Templars would find them, but the halls were so void of people he assumed they were called away.

"I came back. Somehow I managed to avoid the fighting, and I came here. I thought I'd be a dead man for sure, but they're not looking in their castle for enemies. They execute whoever they think's turned traitor; I always keep one alive, so when I kill his friends, he's the one who gets blamed."

Dorian smiled, a strange mix of pride and sadness in his eyes; "That's clever. But you haven't left any alive now."

"I thought you two were Templars. One of you was going to be my scapegoat."

"And now?"

He crossed his arms and stood, a certain maturity returning to him; "Now, we hope you can go back and fix this mess. I haven't left one alive. The Templars are going to know someone's here and they're going to looking until they find him."

"You'll be killed?"

"If nothing's done, yes. I kept a low profile, using the shard to blind them before I attacked," he reached into a small pocket, where there was a hunk of the shard he was given on their journey together; for Fareld a time so long ago. "Now they'll know it's someone, and they'll find me. We have to get you to the main chamber."

"Wait!" Dorian said as the boy turned. If he had waited a second longer to call out, there was no doubt in the mage's mind he would have darted off, ready to cover them from above.

"What?" he asked.

"How have you survived? How in all of this have you managed to scrape food and water together?"

Fareld hesitated and half-turned to him, shame burning on his face, which was still so much like Dorian's. As the mage watched him, he gave a heavy sigh.

"The Templars are good for one thing," he said, gesturing to the dried blood on his face, before he climbed one of the ladders and was gone.

Dorian felt his legs almost give way beneath him. Bryce was there to steady him before he fell, and with a shaky voice the mage said:

"Cannibalism?!"

The Inquisitor helped him to his feet; "He did what he had to. He's too strong and stubborn to just lie down and give up. Reminds me of you."

The pair smiled at each other, and then a flash of brilliance had Dorian hurrying over to the door.

"Where are you going?"

"The main chamber," he called; "It has to be the meeting room. Come on! We have to end this!"

Together, they tore through the building, with Bryce following Dorian as the halls were no less complicated than they were two years previous. Above them they could hear the whistle of arrows as Fareld ran at their side: He was using the balustrades for both cover and advantage, for he knew the building like the back of his hand by this point, and he wanted them to bring back the world he once knew.

Dorian's hunch proved right. The main chamber was in fact the meeting room, and inside there were giant Red Lyrium crystals standing like proud sentinels, dominating the table that at one time the mage's father had sat. The walls were caving in due to pressure, for the minerals were too large to hold and were only growing, and soon Bryce imagined the entire place would fall and Kaeso would be left out in the open, without a castle to call his own.

The fat Magister was in fact sitting on one of the crystals, staring out into the distance. In his hands hung the amulet. When they approached, he gave them no acknowledgement, said no more than a simple 'sorry,' and it was then they realised no guards were around, not even one archer to protect him as they had up on the balustrades.

"Sorry?" Dorian shouted. His voice echoed around the walls. "Sorry?! You've slaughter thousands of innocent people! You killed our friends, your colleagues, my father! All this damage you've caused, and yet you can only say sorry?!"

Kaeso gave a despondent nod; "What else is there to do? I can't reverse this now. It cries out for me to serve it. It hungers still. And with all of these guards at its disposal, how can I say no?"

"You're a coward," the Inquisitor snatched the amulet from him, surprised to see he made no attempts for it back; "Dorian, try and-"

He took it, stating that he needed no instruction, and went to open the portal that would send them home. Bryce feared they had little time to work. Just as when Corypheus had sent his minions after them, he had a feeling soon many Templars would be snapping at their heels, anxious to see them dead.

"Tell me who you're serving." He demanded.

"It doesn't matter now."

"Tell me!"

"It's unstoppable. A machine. Even if you save yourselves, you'll never survive for long. This is just delaying the inevitable."

Bryce growled; "Kaeso, tell me who this is, and perhaps we can go back and mount war. Is this the future you want? Tevinter fallen, everyone dead, and no one here to celebrate with you? Is it?!"

There was a moment in which all with still. Kaeso looked up and, in his honey coloured eyes, some semblance of sense returned. Perhaps it was the Inquisitor's influence or his ability to make men out of bumbling children. When he spoke again, it was with a clear, concise voice, infused with courage.

"The Templars aren't your only problem. Your problem is a High-"

A familiar whistle sounded through the air. Kaeso interrupted himself to look up, and that was the last thing he ever did.

An arrow embedded itself in his chest, so deep that it sliced through and hit the mineral behind him. The arrow's head dripped with blood and from the balustrade Fareld jumped down, approaching the man with his bow still extended.

Bloodlust became apparent in his eyes the closer he grew to Bryce.

"You killed everyone I loved!" he shouted; "You bastard! I hope you burn in the Fade! I hope a thousand demons rip you open and chew your guts! I hope-!" he was cut off by the sound of the double doors open, and from outside in the chaotic world, where in the brief glimpse he got Dorian could see thousands of fires, ruins and more, Templars stormed in.

Fareld pushed the Inquisitor to his lover as they made their way through the door.

"Go!" he shouted; "I'll keep them occupied."

"Fareld!" Dorian cried when he saw his son turn, bow at the ready, only to be swarmed after a few shots by the closest Templars.

The portal opened. The Inquisitor refused to turn as he heard Fareld cry out in pain, but Dorian saw every moment. He saw as the Templars clasped his tiny arms in their hands, saw them take the dagger and raise it to his stomach, a chunk of Red Lyrium close at hand. His face went white and he made a move to save him, but he was stopped by Bryce.

"We have to go back!" he shouted over the din of the portal; "We have to leave!"

"But Fareld-!"

There was a cry of pain as closer the Templars walked to them, followed by a scream of: "Go!"

The Inquisitor took the moment to grab hold of Dorian, and before he could protest the mage found himself dragged through the portal, watching as slowly the images of his son's last struggled were ingrained in his mind.

"Fareld!" he shouted; "Fareld!"

The entire scene faded. Soon, the pair were thrown abruptly back and stood beside Halward, who rejoiced when he saw them.

"But…how?" he asked as he put his hands on Dorian's shoulders; "How did you survive? I saw you-"

The Inquisitor interrupted them by running to Kaeso and knocking the amulet out of his hands. Around them the Red Lyrium sang with magic, and Dorian quickly hurried his father out of the room as Bryce went about securing their newest, defeated foe.

"I'll tell you everything," he promised; "Absolutely everything, after I've seen my boy."


	16. A Higher Form of War

There was an unending silence in the prison cells that stretched out before him, like those interminable nights in the shadow of a mountain. Outside, the world had fallen asleep, and the moon sent a peel of silver light to filter through Fareld's window, lending to a patch of flagstone a half-shadow of light and bars, which slowly moved for his eyes to follow.

Beyond his cell there was nothing more than corridors leading to more cells, and freedom. He sat now on a hard bench, his arms balanced over his knees as he waited for someone, anyone to come and see him, either to tell him he was free or to prepare for the end. His only comfort was that he would die loyal to Tevinter. Other than that, his greatest fear was being realised; he was about to face the Fade, the great Unknown, and all without another to hold his hand.

Fareld looked up to see the stars thrown in the sky. One winked at him, and in his sad state he reached up for it like a baby for a toy.

"I miss you…" he muttered under his breath as his hand clasped the window bar.

Then, he heard the clatter of a door, and loud voices were speaking at speed. The boy stood to move to his cell door; he could make out nothing of what they said, but by the sound of it he determined it was his father and Halward.

"In here!" he shouted when they neared his door; "Let me out!"

The lock snapped open. A guard protested somewhere down the hall, but was hushed by Halward. As the door swung open to reveal the dirty corridor, where on the walls there were large torches and tables were thrust up for the guards.

But before him, with intense, affectionate eyes, Dorian knelt to stare into his. He pulled Fareld towards him and, without speaking, hugged him as tightly as he could manage.

"Ah…" the boy said, but he was ignored. His father's face was buried in his shoulder and Dorian refused to let him go.

"I saw a horrible future," he explained, voice muffled by Fareld's clothes; "and no matter what I do, I'll always have that image burned into my mind. But now I have a chance to change it."

He drew away to stare into his eyes. The mage reached up and cupped his cheek, something close to tears in his eyes, though he noted that Fareld's brow was furrowed and he seemed confused. Perhaps he thought Dorian had finally lost his mind.

"Things will change from now on," he promised, his eyes ever softer, his hands gentle as they cupped Fareld's cheek and brushed his hair out of his eyes; "With what we saw, what you had to do…I won't let that future happen. You can count on that."

The boy peered at him for long moments. In his eyes there sparkled not only confusion, but also something softer, something that ran much deeper and which Dorian could define, had Fareld's attention not then been caught by the screaming, struggling Kaeso being brought into the dungeon.

"What's going on?" he asked as he moved to better see; "Why are they locking Magister Kaeso down here?"

Halward gave his Fareld a comforting smile, standing beside him with his back straight and his hands clasped together. Despite himself, he felt a deep sense of pride for his grandson; perhaps partly due to the fact he thought he might never have one.

"His office is covered in that mineral you described – the Red Lyrium?" he said, almost as intrigued as Fareld as he watched his fellow Magister dragged through the shadow infused hallways and towards a cell; "He went mad on it. Attacked Dorian and the Inquisitor and, by his words, sent them through a time loop."

The boy glanced up in alarm; "Won't that cause another Breach?"

"No, there won't be another one," a voice replied, and Fareld looked to see the Inquisitor walk through the door and into the halls, smiling when he spotted the boy; "But it did give us a chance to see what will happen if we don't stop these Templars."

Bryce moved over to give the boy his own hug, and once more Fareld reacted with confusion. He said nothing though; to question it would lead to a string of complicated answers, and they had more pressing matters to attend to.

Behind him followed his team; Bull, Blackwall and Solas, the latter holding in his arms the injured Legionnaire. Their enthused hellos to Fareld included handing over his pet, and with tender affection the boy held him against his chest, allowing him to lick his face and gently stroking his paw.

"It's good to see you, kid," Bull said; "You look no worse for wear."

Fareld dared to smile; "Execution for loyalty isn't something I choose to fear."

"That's the spirit. We need the bravery," the Qunari reached out and ruffled his hair, and Fareld actually laughed in something close to joy.

The group went then to the meeting room, wherein the Magisters were no longer gathered and the windows had been opened, revealing more prominently the ageing stone walls and the long, semi-circle table they often sat around, clustered like hens.

Halward took that time to peer at Fareld, and then at Dorian. When the mage questioned him, he smiled.

"I've only just noticed how alike you two look," he explained; "It's almost unnerving. You don't look much like me."

Fareld stroked Legionnaire's back in silence. Beside him, Dorian put his hand on his son's head, not to be condescending, but almost to lay claim to him.

There were no words passed between Halward and the mage. Instead, Bryce gathered them all into a circle, as if taking them into confidence about their next moves. Kaeso had been removed from power. The other Magisters, likely shocked by their colleague's impromptu sentencing of Fareld, would listen to them now that Halward, a seasoned member of their order had been convinced and was on their side. The Archon, as Bryce believed, would be contacted and the Herald wanted to speak with him to discuss what had to be done.

"Why include war talks?" Blackwall asked; "We should just arm the men and work out a strategy. Formalities aren't needed in wartime."

"The Archon is the head of Tevinter, and it's by his word that our people act," Fareld said; "Without him on our side, we don't have a hope in Hell for recruitment."

"Solas, will you send out a message for New Haven? Tell them we need our men. Even if we manage to make an army, we'll need our own to help."

The elf nodded in agreement. The thrill of preparation stirred in his heart, but he knew all too well the horrors of war. To march into one with that knowledge was always a heavy burden.

"Bull, I'm not sure if you'll be much use," Dorian said to him; "The people here won't trust a Qunari. Some might attack you."

The blue-skinned giant gave a mighty laugh; "I'll stay here and take stock, then. We need someone who knows weapons to have a look."

"You'll find our supplies mostly encompass staves," Halward warned him; "We have more battle mages than we know what to do with."

"I'll send a message to our Quartermaster to bring more weapons. I think someone's earned themselves a new bow," Bull decided, with a smile aimed at Fareld. The smile was returned; the boy's eyes lit up and his quiet happiness seemed sincere.

"I'll work on drumming up public interest," Blackwall said; "These walls can easily fall if we don't have enough men at our backs. We need more people who know the land. Let me go to the taverns, and I'll see what I can do."

The Inquisitor nodded to them all; "Halward, I'll need your help to meet with the Archon and convince the Magisters to support us."

"I won't see my people killed any longer," he said, determination in his voice; "I'll help you until these Templars are wiped from the face of Thedas."

Bryce glanced at them all, remembering then the words he shared with Kaeso before they had returned. There was something the man feared more than death. Something that, if it wasn't defeated or killed, would make the world a horrific illusion of itself.

"The Templars aren't our only problem. We might be facing something bigger here." He said after a moment's pause. The team looked at him in surprise.

"What?" Bull asked; "But, you saw the Lyrium. The Qunari we saw had it on them, too. You don't think the Templars are the ones doing this?"

"They're involved, but Kaeso seemed to be working under someone else. He mentioned a 'High' something."

"High Priest?" Dorian suggested; "Has anyone checked on the Black Divine lately? Maker knows what he's up to."

The Magister gave him a disapproving glance; "Stop that, Dorian. And please call him 'The Divine,' at least to placate people who might not take your liberal view."

"Arguments on who's the true divine aren't what we need right now," Fareld interrupted them; "People need to realise that if Tevinter falls, we won't be debating divines and chantries – we'll be dead. Even with our Golems-"

"Golems?" Bull asked.

Dorian chose to explain; "Golems. We have three of them – the Juggernauts, bought from the dwarves some time ago. They used to be rather well-known to people not from the Imperium. These days, they spend more time guarding nobility than defending the walls."

"In any case, they aren't agile enough to fight an entire army of Templars back," Halward said, not wanting to admit his beloved nation had become rotten with political corruption; "They could be at the forefront, but they'll be easily passed and the war will be at our walls. We need people to fight."

"Your alliance with the dwarves might prove useful," Solas suggested; "Ask them for help, and I'm sure the Ambassadoria will be happy to lend their hand."

"Enough talking!" the Warden slipped from the ranks and to the door, where he through over his shoulder before vanishing; "I have work to do. I'll report back if anything interesting happens."

Solas took his leave too, for he had to find writing materials and a decent, tenacious courier outfit to send his message. Bull lingered, if only to wait for Fareld so the boy could take him to their armoury, and as Dorian, Bryce and Halward made the last arrangements and plans, they turned then to the child.

"What are we to do with you, then?" Halward asked with a small smile; "We need somewhere to send the children while this all takes place."

"What are you talking about? I'm staying."

"That's ridiculous, Fareld. This is a war, not a game. We can't have apprentice archers-"

"We haven't enough archers as it is. To lose one would be a disaster in itself."

"Dorian, would you convince him?" Halward asked as he looked at his son; "I doubt he'll listen to me."

A thought ran through Dorian's mind: _What makes you think he'll listen to me?!_

Nevertheless, the mage knelt before him, using one of his knees to rest his hands on as he looked deeply into Fareld's eyes. Once more he saw a deep-set courage in them. The boy matched his stare, and he asked, in a very slow, measured voice:

"Fareld – are you sure this is what you want to do?"

He nodded.

The Inquisitor, who stood beside his lover with his arms folded, added; "It's going to be dangerous. There are a lot of people out there, and they're not going to show mercy because you're a child."

"I've faced them once before, remember?" he replied; "I know they'll kill me if they get their hands on me. But I'm quick. I'm good with my bow. I can defend myself, and I can help our frontline. I have to do this. For…for her."

From his pocket he produced his mother's portrait. His eyes flicked down to his free hand where it was held, and Dorian nodded in acceptance.

"Then we won't stop you," he told him.

"This is insane," Halward said; "He's a child! How is sending him into a war any different than putting him to death?"

"I'll have a bow in my hands and they aren't tied. I'll be fine. What we need to worry about is the training regime, and the Archon's permission to set up an army."

"Halward, come with me. We have a lot of work to do," the Inquisitor said, and as he passed Dorian he gave the man's shoulder a comforting squeeze, almost as if saying 'welcome back to reality.'

When the pair had left and only Bull, Dorian and Fareld remained, Dorian said to his son; "You're completely sure about this?"

He sighed – not a sigh of exasperation, but one of weariness.

"We need to face these fights together, as a single unit," he said; "Tevinter would fall if people weren't loyal to it, and we aren't friends with most of the southern nations, if any at all. I love the Imperium, and I understand it has its faults that need to be addressed…but most of the people here are innocent."

"That's big of you to say, since I suspect they haven't treated you quite the same as they would a non-slave," Dorian said. He would admit later that he was prying slightly, but so long had passed and, even if he were accepting the dream he had of Fareld's youth, there were things he had yet to know about his son.

"We need to teach them. But Tevinter isn't a lost cause and it shouldn't be seen as one. Our Magocracy may be odd…" Fareld held his hand up and allowed, for a moment, a small spark of lightning to erupt in his palm, watching as it crackled and dissipated; "but where else would people like us be treated as humans, and not forced into Circles?"

The mage gave him an encouraging, soft smile; "We'll have to watch each other's backs then."

Bull tapped Dorian's shoulder, wanting not to interrupt the moment but also needing to get to the armoury.

"If you're done, I need Fareld to take me to the armoury."

Fareld smiled; "Sure. Let's take this fight to the Templars."


	17. Qunari Wisdom

A few days passed in relative peace. The Archon, knowing that their mages could not protect them from the Templars' massive numbers, agreed to Bryce's proposal, and Solas sent forth the message that would call their men to Tevinter.

Iron Bull remained in the armoury, where his race couldn't offend anyone and he was at his safest. Stock was taken, numbers tallied; for a place where the nobles had shameless riches and merchants needed protection from bandits, there were very few bows, arrows, or weapons at their disposal, even if he set aside the fact most battle-mages would have their staves with them.

Solas visited him on occasion, and calmed his fears when he said that their Quartermaster knew to send arms. That said, there was a long trek between New Haven and Minrathous. Was there a chance their men might not reach the city? He could only hope they wouldn't meet much resistance.

"Careful!"

Fareld looked up from where he was aiming, a frown on his face as he turned his head to a guard, who stood to the side of him. They were on the city wall, and the boy had been aiming at a distant bandit scuttling too close to the merchants.

"Be sure it's a bandit," the guard told him; "We've had too many men wound travellers recently."

"I'm sure it's a bandit," he drew the bow back once more.

"How?"

"I can tell," he said as he closed one eye.

"It just seems-"

"Do you want to take this shot?" his voice was emphatic; "Because I can give this back to you if you do."

The guard held his hands up in submission, and finally fell silent. Fareld lined up the shot. With a slow exhale, he fired.

The small figure on the plane disappeared from sight.

"I think you hit it."

"I think so too," he handed the bow over to him; "Keep practicing. We need good marksmen."

The guard began to equip it to his back again; "You're starting to sound like the Herald."

"He's a good man. We should be grateful to him for what he's doing for Tevinter – for our people. They didn't have to listen to me."

"There's a rumour going around, that's all," the guard straightened himself; "We've heard tell you're planning to go back with them, once this is all over with."

Fareld's brow furrowed and his frown deepened. He tilted his head to one side, and his hand absently went to his bag, where he played with Legionnaire's protruding ear.

"And where have you heard that?" he asked, a slight inflection in his voice that suggested annoyance.

"From a few. Talk has spread like wildfire."

"Does no one think it would be out of character for me to turn my back on the Imperium?"

"Are you joking?" the guard asked; "You're sentenced to death, and then you're the first Tevinter archer supporting the war. You come back after being missing for months, and you have the Herald of Andraste behind you. And not only that, but somehow, your father is a Magister's son, he and the Herald are in a relationship and you instantly jump three statuses to Altus. After all that, I think you returning with them is the least surprising thing that could happen."

"It has been an eventful few months," Fareld admitted, glancing down in a sort of embarrassment.

A few seconds of silence passed and the boy looked up again.

"But I'm still loyal to the Imperium, and here is where I stay."

"Fareld, you've got options now. The Herald of Andraste is your _step-father_."

He shook his head; "He and my father are in a relationship, but no more. My mother died in this region and I'll be damned if I leave her memory behind."

"But-"

"Enough," the boy turned and went to the ladder, whereon he began to climb down; "Keep your eyes open. Bandits could come in packs – or, worse, Templars."

Fareld walked through the town and into the Magisters' building, where he made his way to the armoury. There he found Bull working away, and with a sigh he took the empty seat beside him, careful not to look up into the great Qunari's eyes.

There was an amicable silence for a while as Bull worked, yet he could sense something was amiss. He looked at the boy with his one good eye, noting how the sunlight from the window stretched and slanted over them, and turned when he noticed his despondent mien.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

Fareld shook his head. Still he refused to look up at him.

"Well, there's a reason you look miserable. Did someone say something to you?"

Once more, he shook his head. With his hands knotted together he glanced up, catching in the periphery of his vision Bull's concerned face, and sighed.

"People have been making up rumours," he explained, somewhat sullenly; "It makes sense that they would. I haven't had a normal return home."

"What kind of rumours?"

It occurred in the back of Fareld's mind that there was something protective in his companion's tone, but he chose to ignore it. Solas would hear about them later, he assumed, and if Blackwall had made any progress he too would have picked up a few of the tales. What harm was there in telling Bull, despite his race?

"There's talk that I might return to New Haven after the war. That I'd turn my back on Tevinter."

The Qunari tilted his head to the side; "So, what is your plan?"

Fareld shrugged. The truth was, he hadn't thought of it. His days had been filled with training and war plans. He hadn't the time to spend weighing up his options; that was a luxury boys only beyond his social class could afford.

"It would be an idea to return with us," Bull said when it seemed Fareld would go no further; "There's a place for you at New Haven. A life."

He snorted; "But my loyalty is to Tevinter. Loyalty is more important…loyalty is all I have."

"You don't have to be disloyal to leave. We help people at New Haven. You could consider it as expanding your ability to do so."

Fareld took Legionnaire from his bag, who had been peacefully sleeping for a majority of the day. He stroked him with a small frown, and even to Bull, who had long trained as a Ben-Hassrath, his thoughts were inscrutable.

"I can't believe I'm talking about this with a Qunari."

"Don't consider me one," he suggested; "We've been through a lot together. All of us have. Kid, if it comes down to it, you have a place with us. And I know Dorian will say the same."

Once more, that frown appeared, and Fareld wondered to himself whether or not his father had put Bull up to this. But then he thought that the mage couldn't have known he would go there, much less talk to someone he had once vilified for his race.

"And what else?" he murmured, still fiddling with Legionnaire's ears; "If I leave this behind, what am I? What have I done beyond these walls, out in New Haven? My mother wouldn't want me to leave. She'd want me to stay behind and honour her memory."

Iron Bull smiled. He leaned down ever so slightly, just enough to look Fareld in the eyes, and said in a wise voice:

"If she loved you as much as you think, she would want you to be happy. She knows what you've done. You've helped bring an entire army to destroy who killed her. And everyone in New Haven knows how far you travelled, how much courage that took. Say what you like, Fareld, but no matter where you go, I doubt you could ever be 'discreet.'"

The pair gazed at each other for a moment. Then, despite himself, Fareld smiled.

"Think about it, kid," Bull advised as he returned to his work; "There's no right or wrong answer. But Dorian cares about you, and so does Bryce. No matter what you choose, we all just want you to be happy with it."

And as around them the silence returned, Fareld found himself admiring Bull – the Qunari he thought he would never stomach.


	18. Searching Souls with Nowhere to Go

Dorian rarely ever planned meals.

It wasn't because he disliked the idea of it, or even that he found the formality tedious. As a child, he'd been raised to believe that a family should at least sit down to a meal together once a week, and if not, once every two. It was because after he'd left Tevinter, he'd abandoned almost all of his old traditions with it. Meals with friends around a campfire were his only 'family' dinners, and he ate when he had time to, not at leisure.

But now, as he gathered up the meal he'd prepared and laid the table, he felt a sense of familiarity wash over him. He stood in the home he was promised as a child, not yet given over to one of his cousins, and with its high ceilings and wide hallways, its light blue wallpaper and its fireplace, he hoped he could achieve at least some of what he had as a boy.

There were many things wrong with making a meal there. The kitchen, though with modern fixtures and utensils to surprise the most experienced chef, felt cold and lifeless, and even after he had stoked the coal fire stove Dorian knew there was something lacking. The dining room was grand, but it lacked that authentic family warmth – those cherished pictures they didn't have, or the trinkets on bookshelves that all families seemed to gather.

Bryce returned some time during cooking, and as he helped lay the table, he asked his lover:

"What are you aiming for with this?"

Dorian glanced up; "What do you mean?"

"What's it all for?" he explained; "We're hardly the type to make dinners like this."

The mage carefully set his pot of food down. The table was long, made for dinner parties that he'd never host and banquets he'd never attend. There were many chairs, but he had taken a majority of them and put them down in the cellar, hoping that it would enhance the atmosphere of a quiet family meal.

"I'm not sure," he admitted as he laid a towel down and moved the pot on top of it; "Fareld hasn't had a normal childhood. I want to give him some of the experiences I had – at least, some of the better ones. And with all the war preparations, what else can we find the time to do?"

Bryce hummed something in reply, yet there was a smile on his face. The signs of luxury around them were familiar to him too, but like Dorian he felt that something was lacking, some deeper warmth not found in uninhabited houses.

"When is he coming?" the Inquisitor asked between trips from the kitchen to dining room.

"Supposedly before sundown. But, that depends on whether or not he gets distracted by something else."

"And if he does?"

"Then we can only hope he manages to get here before midnight."

Fareld walked up the long paths of the great manor, which for a long time he'd heard was abandoned. The garden was trimmed and cared for, with wild flowers scattered in heavy flowerbeds, trees overladen with fruit, and tall, beautiful gates that bordered it from the swept streets beyond. As most luxury houses were, it was far separated from its neighbours. He had always wondered if that was due to privacy or snobbery.

The house itself was of fine make. Strong brick painted blue sat on reinforced foundations, and a wide, white porch greeted him as he clambered to the front door, which had a polished copper knocker. In true fashion, the door was white. It all seemed awfully domestic and somewhere deep within, he recoiled at the sight of it.

_Perhaps everyone's inside,_ he thought as he turned the handle, relieved to find it unlocked: _I'm late enough._

Bryce looked up from the liquor cabinet he was inspecting, and saw the door open to reveal Fareld. The boy, who still had his bow on his back and Legionnaire's bag swung over his shoulder, looked at him and nodded.

"Herald," he greeted; "Is everyone inside?"

"Only Dorian and me," was his answer as he ushered the boy inside. He walked hesitantly behind the man, and soon Legionnaire climbed out of his bag to search for a suitable sleeping spot.

When he entered the dining room, Fareld's brow raised. He was told to sit down, in front of a plate full of food, which in turn made his brow rise higher. Putting his bow on the back of his chair, he did as the Herald asked. As the men before him took their seats, the boy looked up.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"We're having dinner," Dorian replied.

"It's important to spend time together," Bryce added.

"Okay…" he flicked his head from side to side as if inspecting the room; "Then where are the others?"

The Herald passed him his cutlery; sparkling silverware too formal for his tastes. He peered at them with surprise and confusion.

"They aren't here. Solas, Bull and Blackwall took the night off."

"Is this work?"

"No," Dorian bit into his food, and in his mind complimented himself on what a good cook he was; "This is family time."

Fareld almost visibly flinched at the words, but he managed to disguise whatever emotion he felt. He was unsure himself what it was. Shock? Anger? Joy? He could only hope the conflicting thoughts would soon disperse and he could make sense of himself again.

He stabbed a piece of food, too long having lived without proper table manners; "I don't understand why the others aren't here. They're family, aren't they?"

"Very, very close friends. Like family, yes. But Dorian wanted tonight to be just us."

Fareld felt embarrassment wash over him, awkwardly plucking a piece food from his fork to feed to the scavenging Legionnaire below him. His eyes remained on that sharp little face, for he could feel the pair looking at him and refused to risk stammering.

"How did the marksman training go today?" the Herald asked; "I've heard promising things."

He snorted; "You've heard wrong. The men aren't nearly ready. If the Templars come tomorrow, we have problems. If they come in three weeks, we might have a team capable of defending us, if only for a little while."

"Three weeks of intensive training. Sounds like our men will be more than needed."

"The Inquisition is always needed," Fareld replied; "Your people are going to keep Tevinter standing in this war. Our men have gotten too soft. They never thought this day would come. That's what happens when a place prospers for too long."

Dorian sipped his drink; "War isn't a good conversation for dinner."

"Call it politics," Fareld replied.

"Your father's right. We shouldn't be talking about it."

"But-"

"You know," Dorian continued; "I haven't seen you anywhere but the training grounds lately. Come to think of it, I haven't seen where you sleep."

Fareld looked down again; "I train all day and I sleep wherever I can."

"Not the house you were staying in?" the Inquisitor's brow rose, if only by a little.

"No," Fareld chewed with his mouth closed, at least; "The boys there looked down on me and staying was a nightmare. I chose to leave that behind."

"So…" Dorian leaned on the table on his forearms; "Where do you plan on living when this is all over?"

Once more, he was silent. Bull's words were a slow river in his head, but that had only been the day before and he was anxious not to make hasty decisions. He still felt like his loyalty was tied to Tevinter.

"I've heard a rumour." Bryce mentioned, and Fareld felt a large pit open in his stomach. "Solas tells me you and Bull spoke about it."

"Bull? Really?"

"We spoke," he agreed, if somewhat quietly, sinking into his seat and holding his fork at arm's length.

"Did he give you any useful advice?"

"Some."

Dorian raised his eyebrow, hands clasped together in front of his face as he rested his elbows on the table. Never had he expected his son, so against Qunari, to listen to Bull's advice. Never had he expected Bull to take a shine to Fareld. It was proving a strange time to be alive.

"He seems to think you'll make the right decision."

"You spoke to Bull?" the mage asked.

Bryce nodded; "I always keep tabs on my people – you know that. Bull is adamant Fareld will choose the right path for himself."

"I always do," he muttered, to which both men glanced, but none called attention to.

Fareld soon looked up.

"Mother lived here. She lived here and now she's gone. If I leave, I leave her behind. I'm loyal to the Imperium…loyal soldiers don't leave."

The Inquisitor's eyes softened; "They do if they've done everything they can for their people."

Silence was re-established, and after a while Dorian and Bryce began talking, and the boy listened. Legionnaire climbed into his lap to be better fed and he was content to do so if it meant he had something other than his impending choice to focus on.

And so the night went on. When the dinner ended Fareld made his excuses, leaving the table to disappear into the night, underneath the shimmering stars and flurry of galaxies. He had his bag, his bow and fox, and felt for that moment that he was free; that there were no important decisions to be made or wounds to heal, or even people to lose in the upcoming war.

"That…could have gone better," Dorian said. His lover pulled him into a hug by his waist.

"I'm sorry it didn't go as you planned."

"No, actually, it was much better than I thought. No one got into an argument. Fareld wasn't as angry as he could have been when we brought up his living situation."

Bryce smiled; "So, do we dare call this a success?"

"Baby steps, love. We still have to convince him to come back to New Haven."

"What makes you so sure we'll be able to?"

"I'm not," he explained; "but I don't want to survive this war only to have my son stay when we move on. Without his mother sending him money, I doubt he'll be able to support himself."

"He'll be a hero to the people," Bryce noted.

"Tevinter's heroes can easily be forgotten. Some of them end up penurious on the streets, while others go on to achieve great wealth. I don't want to take that gamble with Fareld."

The Inquisitor smiled and cupped his cheek, saying in a soothing tone; "We can't dictate to him what he does now. Let him find his way. Bull thinks he'll make the right decision – we have to have his faith."

The boy in question had reached the city walls, where he sat starring at the dark planes beyond them; places he'd known and researched, and yet had never truly explored. Apart from the times he would visit his mother's village, he had never left Minrathous. His departure to find the Herald had been the first time he went truly beyond his comfort zone. So why was it that the thought of doing so for good made his heart stutter?

Above him, a single star winked. He looked up at it and sighed.

"I wish you were still here," he admitted; "It wouldn't be so hard to decide."

The star winked again. Perhaps it was his mind, for he was sure his mother had moved on to sit at the Maker's side, but it comforted Fareld to think she still watched over him.

"I'm loyal to Tevinter. I'm a good soldier and I shouldn't even think about leaving for longer than I have to. But…"

Legionnaire's head appeared from the bag. Wide, sleepy eyes looked up at Fareld, his tongue out, and with an almost innate understanding the fox began to lick his hand. Fareld could only give a weak smile.

"We'll make it through, won't we?" he said to him; "I don't have to worry about anything as long as I have you. You depend on me. I can't let you down."

A voice called out to him through the darkness. He looked up, and saw the reflective head of Solas approaching him, a vague smile on the elf's face.

"What are you doing out here? Shouldn't you be asleep?"

Fareld's brow furrowed; "Shouldn't you be in the Fade?"

Solas paused. He sat down beside the boy, putting the butt of his staff to the ground as he made himself comfortable.

"Something wrong?" he asked.

"No."

"What an awful lie."

"I've told worse."

"So you admit you're lying?"

"What? No, I-" he frowned; "I hate it when you do that."

"It's a gift and a curse."

"I've heard the same about magic," he leaned forward, letting his face slip into his hands; "Do you…do you think she knows?"

"Who knows?"

"My mother. Do you think she knows I've tried to do the right thing?"

Solas sat forward. Through his nose he exhaled noisily, and his hands fell to his knees as he thought of his reply.

"I'm almost certain she does," he soon said; "But we can't know for sure. That's the nature of death. It's a temporary limitation, but it doesn't stop us missing our people."

Fareld pulled the portrait from his pocket and looked at it. It was hard to believe so much time had passed, and his grief was still so intense. No more did tears fall, but now when he looked at it, instead of excitement at his next visit, he only felt the hot, tight ball of rage rise from his stomach and into his throat.

"She always wanted me to grow up and become something," he admitted; "She worked hard to set an example. But she hated him. She hated Dorian. And I hated him too. I hated him because he wasn't there, because I didn't understand. But I don't know what I feel anymore. Did I ever really hate him? Have I fallen under his spell?"

Solas shook his head; "You met him. He may seem aloof at times, but deep down, Dorian cares – and he cares a great deal about you."

The boy sighed and looked out to the planes.

"I just want one day where things aren't so confusing."

"Welcome to the Inquisition," Solas half-joked with him; "where nothing makes sense until the very last minute, and then you're in a war."

He smirked, reciting; "There is no war more destructive than a civil one. Families divided, friends asunder, and on all sides brothers take up arms against brothers, for their blood is the demon's favourite drink. The cries of children forced from mothers plays as music in the Black City, and all abundant is the smell of decay, for here they stand on the precipice of death, and yet all war is sped the process."

"I know that one."

"It's an old poem," he murmured; "I remember reading it once in a book."

There was a long pause as the pair looked out to Tevinter, where in the many mountains there hid a great enemy, and behind them, a greater one. The fear Fareld felt for a place that was once his only comfort almost made him weep.

"I thought I saw you two up here."

He glanced up to see Bull arrive, or at least the Qunari's great silhouette in the dark. He like Solas took a seat beside them, staring out into the darkness beyond as if trying to find what they were looking for.

"Why are you two even out so late?" Fareld asked; "Not even people that live here are out at this time."

"I couldn't sleep," Solas told him; "Which is very frustrating, given my line of study."

"I gotta say the same," Bull said.

"Three people awake, when it seems the whole world's sleeping," he looked up at the stars; "Sort of makes you feel…small."

"Trust me, kid, after this, you won't feel so 'small.' People are going to talk about what you did here."

"They're going to talk about the Herald and all the Inquisition. I'll be known as the messenger, as most stories go. 'And one night, under cover of darkness, that hooded messenger rode off to New Haven…'"

"'And his name was Fareld, marksmen of Tevinter, who brought back to his home in its time of turmoil an entire army to fight with them…'"

He folded his eyes; "Dorian, son of Dorian."

Bull's lips thinned and his expression became serious, not in a stern or austere way, but rather one that had found out something not known before.

"So it's true, then?" he asked; "Your name's Dorian?"

"Dorian Fareld Evodius," he confirmed.

"That's a mouthful."

Fareld nodded, and brought his knees to his chest. He looked out once more and said, with a raised eyebrow:

"When you fall asleep, Solas, does it ever feel like you don't want to wake up?"

He thought for a moment; "There have been occasions."

"Your dreams aren't normal ones, are they?"

"No. I'm a lucid dreamer. I can travel much further through the Fade than most other mages."

"Don't you ever _worry_?" he asked; "Sometimes, I feel like we aren't doing things right here. That we need to find a way to safely suppress magic so people can't use it anymore. It would stop so many wars. So many debates and arguments would be settled. Is magic really worth all the blood spilt?"

"Magic is a part of who we are. It makes Thedas what it is, and it helps us in more ways than we can imagine. Yes, there are those that will always abuse magic, because it's power. But those who become truly adept at it – those who go on to be remembered as intelligent, noble men – are the ones who understand that it's not a toy. And who accept themselves with it, no matter what."

The last part was added with more emphasis, and Fareld, for all of his arguments, was silent. Beside him Bull reached over and pulled him from a side-ways jostle-hug.

"There's light at the end of the tunnel," he promised.

"Is it light or the Maker?" he half-joked.

"We'll find out soon enough," Solas said; "For now, I think we should all get some sleep."

The trio stood, but before Fareld could wander off into the darkness, he heard Bull call:

"Come on, kid – we're going back to Dorian's place."

With a small amount of hesitation and a thought to the cold breeze, Fareld turned and followed them.


	19. Stone to Tremble

"He's _what?_"

Dorian, who had been lingering in the tents set up near the gates for Cullen to command in, charged out of them when he heard the news. Before him he could see many curious faces; faces of people he had once known and, in some cases, their children, born long after he had left. The marketplace had been transformed into their command centre, and when Cullen arrived to take over, it would be heaving with soldiers, war prep, and the like.

Behind him, Halward followed.

"Think, now, Dorian," he urged as he hurried alongside him, apprehension in his eyes; "Fareld has handled the golems many times before. He knows how to act and what to do with the control rods."

"I should have been told before he was given this duty," the mage replied, and he did so with an irritated tone to his voice, overlaid with concern; "I've told you before, Father. Fareld may not act like it, but he's my son and I want to know what's happening with him."

"The boy insisted he was given the job," Halward replied.

"I'm to be told first, no exceptions!"

As the pair walked towards the garden where the golems had been kept, they passed Bryce, who gave them a smile. Falling in step beside them, he noticed the agitation in Dorian's eyes, the tension of his shoulders, and with his smile turning into a frown he asked him what was wrong.

"It seems our little Fareld has managed to get himself a job with the golems," his voice was weary and he spared an exasperated glance towards his lover; "More specifically, someone's given him the control rods and now he's training with them."

"The _golems_?" Bryce repeated, for he was unsure he had heard right, and even if he had never seen one before he'd heard enough legends to know what great dangers they were.

Halward, however, tried to placate them both; "He's quite safe. We've relied on the golems for years. I have no doubt in my mind that he's almost done with them."

It was then that they rounded the corner to the gardens, and Dorian almost had a heart attack.

The gardens themselves were beautiful. Long pathways snaked through at least an acre of green grass, and on that grass were placed benches, small flowerbeds, and even two ponds, all bordered from the streets by a black iron fence. An artificial lake had been created for ducks to swim in, where now Legionnaire was taking a drink; the Inquisitor imagined some alternate universe wherein he and Dorian had Fareld as their son, and the boy was playing in the grass as they laid on some picnic blanket a little further away, watching him with twin smiles.

But as it was, Fareld had no wish for normality. Amongst the beauty, three massive golems stood in the visage of great men, who with stone hides and blank features were all the more terrifying for their height. Their collars were magic, it seemed – Bryce could make out pulses of something, perhaps Lyrium, but the collars themselves were heavy-looking devices that were most intimidating, and their eyes seemed hollow. On their wrists there were cuffs, and on these, magical runes.

He had heard once that these great golems were in fact volunteer dwarves. Their mouth and eyes and all other areas had been covered in hot metal to battle against the first blight, but after their creation their inventor became overwhelmed with fear. He was ordered to make more, to use dwarves without caste or home, and without the ability to deny for fear of his works being stolen the man fled. The queen who sent their golem army after him lost the Legion of Steel, and so he had never been found, and to that day not a single, controllable golem had been created.

One of their giant hands was laid out flat in front of them. On its palm the boy was balanced, looking into their open mouths. His hands were clasped behind his back, his brow furrowed, and nibbling at his bottom lip as if he were working something out in his head.

"Fareld!" Dorian called, to which the boy turned to look at them in surprise; "What are you doing up there?! Come down!"

"I'm checking the golems," he replied with a raised eyebrow; "They need to be in top shape if we want to defend the walls. It's necessary."

The Herald folded his arms; "If you fall and break your neck, we'll have more problems than just the golems. Come down, Fareld. This isn't up for debate."

For a moment it seemed as if the boy would protest, for that familiar spark of anger entered his eyes and his back straightened as though in defence. Soon, though, Fareld gave a sigh, and with the control rod clasped in his hand he ordered for the golems to set him down.

Halward was surprised. As long as he had known the boy, he was always ignoring orders given to him for safety, always willing to dive head-first into danger without the express need to. Why was it that he followed the Herald's command? Was it out of respect? Out of fear? Something more?

However, as the boy approached them, he did so with a protest at the ready; "We need the golems. Without them we don't stand a chance to keep the Templars busy."

"I swear, Fareld, festis bei umo canavarum." Dorian sighed. Relief bloomed in his chest to see the boy safe, but a distant part of him wondered if he would ever get over the sharp stab of panic whenever Fareld took a risk.

"I'm fine!" he said; "I've handled the golems before. They're more trustworthy than any our men, because they have no Free Will. Look!"

He thrust the control rod into their hands. It was a long thing, thin and firm, and as Bryce took it he realised just how much power he wielded at that moment. If he weren't the Herald of Andraste, he fancied he would have had no idea what it was like to handle such a force of destruction.

"I think it would be best if you went and helped Bull with his work," Dorian said, hands on his hips as he looked at his son; "At least there I know you won't go and do the exact thing we've told you not to."

"But-!"

"Fareld, it's for the good of the war effort. Bull may need your help with something important." Bryce smiled at him, despite what had occurred. He admired the child's spirit, his courage, but he too felt the fatherly worry that came with Fareld being in constant danger, and despite all of his attempts at equality he sometimes favoured the boy with safer tasks.

"Bull knows where everything is," he grumbled.

"Yes, but he might need the company. Go to the Magisters' building."

Without another word, though his eyes were alight with indignation and protest, Fareld followed his orders. He spared a passing glance at the golems as he moved to where Legionnaire was sleeping beside the lake, and then he jumped over the fence and into the streets beyond, heading towards the place.

Dorian let out a breath when he was sure Fareld was out of ear-shot. There was something unnerving about his ability to scare him.

"I never want to see my son working on these alone again," he said to his father; "He could have fallen and hurt himself, and no one would have been around to see."

Bryce moved to lay a comforting hand on Dorian's shoulder; "Love…"

"We have to be firm." The mage said in a resolute voice to his lover.

"You have to trust him with this work," Halward said, and in his wise eyes there laid a sort of pride, as if he saw in his son a fine father; "He hasn't let the Imperium down yet – something I wish other Magisters would see."

Dorian shook his head; "It's not the Imperium I'm worried about. It's him. It's him and his safety and how, in the midst of all of this, we're trying to keep him alive. I refuse to allow him to take reckless risks like this, when it could be avoided with at least a partner to help him should anything happen."

"We can't afford-"

"You can afford men and you will. Fareld is that legacy you were willing to disable me over Father, remember? He's that heir you were so desperate to see come to life. Why are you finding every excuse available to put him in harm's way?"

"Dorian…"

The Inquisitor's hand became a little tighter; "Dorian, enough. I want to look at these golems. Come with me."

For a moment, the mage lingered, staring into the eyes of his father as if in some telepathic match, but soon he responded to his lover's urging and walked over with him to the golems. Behind them, Halward watched. In his mind he wondered if he would ever truly please his son, for it seemed every decision he made clashed with some ideal in Dorian's head.

The skies were overcast as Fareld approached the Magisters' building. With a sigh he smelt rain in the air; a bad time for it, as with the war approaching bad weather would make it difficult to shoot accurate arrows.

He wandered through the halls to the armoury, where he found Bull hard at work. Taking his regular seat, he sighed.

"The Herald thinks I can't control the golems," he said when the Qunari raised an eyebrow at him, rubbing his hands over the table top; "You don't need to be trained to work with the golems. They have no Free Will."

Bull shrugged; "He worries. It's understandable."

"I'm a member of this team, aren't I? I have to do things that aren't always safe."

"Doesn't mean he has to like it."

Fareld frowned. Beside him the Qunari looked up, and he offered a smile in return.

"Help me out with these numbers," he told him, passing him a slip of paper; "Two heads are better than one."


	20. Firmer with Friends

There was a definite storm brewing on the horizons of Tevinter.

The clouds were stained with the taint of different blacks and greys, clustering together as though waiting for the moment to strike, and as Fareld watched them he felt a tug of anxiety in his heart. Their presence would make the war less tolerable. Their rains and winds and cold would shatter the soldiers' morale, make their crops fail, and all through the land he loved so dearly there would be a constant, warbling cry.

"We can plan for rain," Solas consoled him as they stood on the city walls, their breath coming out as curling white clouds of steam; "Storms and winds can be fought around. Think of it this way – whatever troubles they give us, they give to the other team."

Fareld shook his head as he looked at the countryside beyond them, replying; "These Templars are killers in their own right. Their training far outweighs the soldiers' and I know they'll either have made plans or will be able to battle through the weather. How can I not fear the rain, when it spells the end?"

The elf smiled at him. It was a kind smile, a comforting one, and with a steadying hand he placed on Fareld's shoulder, he brought the boy some sense of calm. It was truly magical, his constant air of sanity.

"We have to trust in ourselves and our men," he said with the wisdom of the ages; "We have the golems; we have the walls; we have the weapons; and soon, we will have the numbers. Can we do anything more than hope?"

"Has hope ever fed a family or ploughed a field?"

"It definitely has a hand in it."

The boy did not make further argument. Instead, he sighed and turned to the marketplace, which he now saw as the rudimentary command centre which would help their men to victory. Tents had been set up, tables spread, and in anticipation of the weather a few canopies of beige tarp were being constructed to keep all tactical archives dry. The tables themselves were sad things, made out of splintered and surplus wood and kept only for convenience. The canopies would be simple things; tarps spread out using rope and tied to poles, which themselves would be driven into the earth for stability.

The select slaves and servants allowed to help were proving to be fine workers. Some had even lent their hand in the forces, and were being trained accordingly. Fareld had much hope in his heart that his brothers-in-rags would find their callings there, and if not, would at least have brave stories to tell their children.

It seemed there was a constant crowd around their base. Perhaps it was due to Bryce being some kind of celebrity; Fareld could see him where they stood, hunched over his plans and notes, hard at work for a cause he didn't have to care about. There was something inherently noble about the man that he hoped he would emulate one day.

Solas gestured to the ladder that led down to the marketplace; "Come. We should go and help the Herald."

"I should stay. I have target practice to attend."

"You can miss an hour of it," he reasoned; "Bryce will need our input."

"He's the Herald of Andraste. If even he needs others' input, there are no great leaders."

"Of course there are. You have to change how you view them, Fareld. There's no man alive who can stand in front of an army and battle them back alone. There's no man in history who hasn't relied on others to help them, for better or for worse. We are who our allies make us, and who our allies make themselves."

Fareld's arms crossed, but the expression in his eyes showed a subtle change. They became softer, more contemplative, and Solas could see the tiniest bit of certainty escape him.

"Fine," the boy said, unfolding his arms with a sigh; "Let's go and help the Herald."

Bryce was busying himself with a document, bent over one of the outside tables as his eyes scanned through the lines of text before him. He was too engrossed in his work to notice Solas and Fareld approach, and in true fashion the pair just stood at the opposite side of him, waiting for a moment to speak.

"Oh!" he jumped when he saw them; "Solas, Fareld! I was hoping you would come by. I need your opinion on something."

"What do you need?" Solas gave a glance to Fareld, who rolled his eyes.

Bryce didn't notice as he went on; "The mages are powerful, but I can't seem to work out where to place them. I want the archers on the walls for ranged attacks – where could the others go that would be most useful?"

The boy's mouth fell open when the Herald revealed his strategy, but before he could speak Solas did instead.

"I suggest you keep them on the ground, but behind the soldiers. Their magic can serve as distractions or middle-line defence."

Fareld waved his hand in shock; "The archers are going on the walls?"

"Yes," Bryce replied, an eyebrow raised as he lifted his head from the files; "We need them at a reasonable distance, don't we? You and your men will be on the walls to fight back the flood that gets through."

Despite the warmth that bloomed in his chest for the term 'his men,' and admittedly the excitement, there was still a frown on Fareld's face. His brow knitted together and his shoulders rolled, as if settling himself into a debate.

"We shouldn't have the battle so close to Minrathous. It'll be disastrous. If the archers somehow fail-"

"They won't. I have full faith in you." Bryce replied, to which Fareld looked away to hide blush rising to his face. The Herald caught it, however, and smiled at him despite the plans and strategies between them.

"If they _do_," he continued; "The people will have to abandon their homes and leave all their possessions behind. Those who don't escape will be slaughtered. It'll be a massacre and we won't be able to defend them in streets."

The Herald once more smiled at him. It was another soft smile, with something deeper lying in it, and in discomfort Fareld dared to glance down, not wanting to prolong eye contact between them. He had said his piece. It was the Herald's choice to heed his warning or ignore it.

"As I said, I have full faith in you, Fareld. There's nowhere else for your men to go, and our only knowledge of the Templars is that they're coming here, to Minrathous. Your notes suggested it, didn't they?"

He nodded. It was true. The notes he had carried with him all those weeks before had documented that the Templars were moving in a sure, determined path, and that the capital was in the direct line of fire. Once that fell, many other cities were to be targeted. Their only hope was to stop them before their armies were decimated.

"I-"

Another voice entered the air, and the trio's heads turned. Their eyes sought out Bull, who amongst the people was a giant, and who made them quiver with fear as the Tevinter hurried out of his way. For the Qunari's part, he ignored them.

"Boss, Solas, Fareld," he greeted them all when he neared the table; "We have a problem."

"Joy. I'll never tire of hearing that," Fareld said.

Bull gave him an amused smile, but soon he was frowning again. The boy marvelled at the fact he could still look so frightening when doing nothing. He wondered if he would ever grow to be so robust and durable, but he decided it was a warrior trait and he, being an archer, would be given a lithe, compact body to better suit his art.

"What's the problem?" the Herald asked.

"Well, there's two," he was told, and it was with a deep sigh that Bull announced; "The guards just found Kaeso dead in his cell. Suicide. They think he topped himself in the night, during the shift change."

Above them, the skies seemed to grow darker with pregnant rain clouds. Solas' eyes widened and Fareld almost recoiled, for the news was almost too terrible to contemplate.

_Damn it, boy!_ He mentally chastised himself: _This is a war. Things like this are going to happen all the time. Toughen up!_

"Suicide?!" the Herald's eyes were a mix of shock and sadness, though sadness for what his audience had no idea; "That's…this is terrible. We were going to interrogate him about this 'High' person. What are we going to do now?"

"One of the Magisters told me it's custom to clear out the deceased's office and separate his documents. There's a chance you might find something in there, Maker willing."

"That's one way of seeing it," Dorian's voice rose in their ranks, and it was then that Fareld realised he had appeared beside Bryce. Father and son exchanged nods to each other, but no more. The mage wondered if he would ever have a willing smile off the boy, or even a 'hello' when he passed.

"Our customs shouldn't be used for this," the boy murmured darkly; "War is a time when not even the dead can afford respect. What next? Will we take the heads of the departed and use them as warning signs?"

Bull reached out and rested a heavy hand on the child's head. It was the weight of it that relaxed Fareld. The absurdity that he could find peace from having a Qunari so near was lost to him. For a moment, he became a force to anchor him to Thedas, and in his mind Fareld thanked him for his quiet solace.

"We won't do anything more than what's necessary." The Herald assured him, and Dorian added:

"There are a lot of things to be done when it comes to preparation, but we won't disturb the dead. They're quite safe, Fareld. I promise you."

Then, a shout. All heads turned and, in unanimous shock, realised that one of the Imperium guards had an arrow aimed at Bull. The Qunari instantly raised his hands to defend himself, and Fareld beside him grabbed his bow, training it for the man's forehead.

"Drop your weapon!" he shouted.

The guard himself seemed a young fellow. Nervous eyes looked out from a tarnished helmet, his armour neither crested nor new, and his arms were trembling with the effort it took to keep an arrow trained. Fareld was blessed with keen upper body strength. His love of archery had made him the perfect fit for it; and a deadly opponent to be set against.

"That's a Qun!" the guard protested; "He's an enemy to the Imperium!"

Dorian shouted; "Are you mad, boy?! He's a friend of the Herald. A warrior of the Inquisition. Put down your bow!"

"Qunari don't belong here!"

He drew his bowstring back more, which was responded to by Fareld drawing his. Beside him, Solas armed himself, ready in case he needed to spring forward and put a protective barrier between them.

"Put it down!" Fareld barked; "I don't want to shoot you!"

"You're an Imperium archer! You shouldn't be speaking to _that_!"

The guard's contempt for Bull almost made Fareld's blood boil. He would remember later that it was his own view not so long before – that the mere sight of a Qunari's metallic blue skin and massive horns could set him aflame with rage – but for now, he was furious with his fellow man. He refused to let Tevinter's short-sightedness lead to a wanton attack on someone he had dared call 'friend.'

"I'm an Imperium archer who's not been eaten yet!" he replied, to which Bull turned his head in surprise; "Iron Bull is a loyal warrior to the Herald. He's a good man, a good soldier, and a good friend. He's helped us travel and now he lends a hand to make sure our people don't die. I'll be damned if he's rewarded for that with an arrow to the throat!"

The pairs' eyes clashed. Between them there was a battle of wills, but Fareld had long since in practice in them. His stare stayed firm and resolute, for he was sure in his decision, sure in his cause, and sure that Bull would not be harmed by his own men.

Soon enough, the guard's arms faltered, and with reluctance he loosened his bowstring. Fareld kept his trained for a further few seconds before he too did the same, nodding in the direction of the walls.

"Go. We need our archers practising, not wasting time. Go!" the last word he said with stern force. The guard bowed to them, embarrassment evident in his eyes, and through the crowd that had gathered disappeared to his post - the wall, where most other archers were expected to ply their trades.

There was silence for a moment. The crowd around them stared at Fareld, who for a moment stood there as if to make sure the guard was gone. When he turned, he came face-to-face with the stares of the team.

"What?" he asked, a nervous edge to his voice.

"We didn't know you held Bull in such high regard." Dorian explained. There was a glimmer of light in his eyes that to Fareld was inscrutable, but to others was a warm show of pride.

The boy looked away so as not to meet their eyes; "Iron Bull is as much a member of this army as any one of the Tevinter men. He's proved his loyalty. I won't have him die for his race."

"Well, isn't that a turn-around?" the Qunari commented. "A few weeks ago, you hated me."

"A few weeks ago, I hadn't travelled with you."

It was then that the Herald, though pleased with Fareld's progress and realisations, asked Bull what the second piece of news he had was.

"Oh, that," he said, and his face brightened with a smile; "It's more a rumour, really. Blackwall told me this morning, but with the whole Kaeso fiasco I haven't had the chance to pass it on."

"Blackwall actually heard a rumour?" Dorian said, bemused.

"What is it?" Solas asked; "Is it anything we can use?"

"Word has it, our-"

Bull was interrupted by the sound of horns. They were alien to Fareld and so he turned, staring up to see his archers on the walls, their bows trained on some target he couldn't see.

"An attack!" he said, and before he could be held back he hurried up to the ladder. He climbed it as such a pace that Legionnaire, who had been lying comfortably in his bag for the entire time, gave a grumble of annoyance.

He told his men to stand ready when he reached the walkway. Arming himself, he chose to ready his bow rather than look out at who approached them. His heart was thumping at high speed. The blood in his veins had run cold. All around him he could hear calls, shouts, orders and the like, but Fareld took no real notice of it and instead stood, bow at the ready.

What he saw made all of his thoughts sing for joy.

Rather than the entourage of Templars he feared, the 'threat' approaching was a long, horse-riding army of soldiers; soldiers who all wore the Inquisition armour, and who at their head had Cullen in the lead, blowing on a curved horn. He cried out at the men to lower their weapons and, though they were reluctant to receive orders from a boy, a slave no less, they did as commanded.

The army had many wagons with them. Some were given canopies, and in his heart Fareld knew they held weapons oh so precious to the war. They came from the mountains apparently unhindered, which in turn gave him hope that not all was lost. Beside Cullen, he could see the entire host of Bryce's influential supporters; Varric; Vivienne; Sera; Cole; Josephine; Leliana; Cassandra and more. His spirits were uplifted. Finally, they had come.

"The Inquisition is here!" he heard someone shout to the side of him; "Open the gates!"

There was the sound of rending metal as the gate-keepers heeded their commands. Fareld saw the entire countryside in front of Minrathous become filled with friendly soldiers, and when he caught Cullen's eye below him, he gave a smile, hands on his hips in amazement.

"Did you leave New Haven completely exposed?" he called out, amusement in his voice.

"We have enough men guarding it!" Cullen replied with equal mirth and laughter.

"Come inside!" Fareld gestured to the gates; "It's time to put some real effort in this war!"

And as the Inquisition's men were welcomed by thankful Tevinter, greeted with water, food, and whatever else could be found to give them, the skies opened, and it began to rain.


	21. To Father and Son

The marketplace was soon transformed, replaced instead by a city of tents, and with the soldiers came the bards, the singers and more. For the first time since preparations had begun, Fareld heard music, heard laughter in the taverns he passed, and felt in his heart a hope he hadn't known he lacked.

But the rain proved a concern to him. With each day it continued, pouring, it seemed, from a perpetual black cloud, and making all training near impossible. The canopies were made thicker and wider, stretching across the tents within which Cullen commanded his forces and Josephine made important political ties, if with some help from Leliana.

A week after the Inquisition had arrived, Fareld stood on the wall's walkways, aiming his arrow out to some small speck on the plane. He had seen them time and time again; people who had heard Minrathous was in deep war preparation, and hoped that with them so busy the guards would allow criminals to slip through the net.

Fareld shivered. His cloak he had given to Legionnaire to keep the fox warm, though it meant he was soaked through. He could feel an intense cold settle in his bones and prayed, perhaps to the Maker, perhaps to Andraste, that he would be fit for battle should the time come.

As he lined up the shot, fearful that the rain would make him less accurate, he heard a call from behind him.

"Fareld, why aren't you wearing your hood?"

"Not now, Dorian," he said, one eye shut to ensure precision; "I'm busy."

Footsteps sounded behind him; "I don't care. How many times have you been told? You can't train in this weather, and you can't walk around without a cloak. You're soaked through!"

Fareld felt two arms wrap around his waist and, before he could struggle, he was lifted from the ground. Out of surprise he let his bow fall, and it clattered to the floor. Legionnaire beside him jumped to his rescue, but such was the fox's nature that he didn't do more than put his front paws on Dorian's legs, barking that strange little bark of protest.

"Let me go!" the boy said; "Damn it, Dorian! Put me down!"

"There's a limit to how much I'll let you get away with," the mage said, and it was then that Fareld realised he had removed his own cloak. With ease Dorian manoeuvred the thing above his son's head and pulled it over him, the material so large and spacious that it swamped his entire frame.

The mage let him down. With a fierce grumble, Fareld looked up at him, glaring through his long eyelashes and curls of brown hair.

"I don't want your cloak," he said.

"I don't want you out here catching your death," Dorian replied; "but if you insist on it, we have to reach a compromise. I'll only allow you out here if you promise to wear a cloak."

"I don't recall ever asking your permission."

"My permission is the Herald's permission, and I'm sure he'll agree with me."

A deep scowl fell on Fareld's face, but despite his protests he made no move to disobey his father. In truth, he liked the cloak. It was warm, cosy, and with a scent most alien, yet familiar at the same time. The fabric was a simple light blue, the design Tevene and, perhaps if he thought about it more, Fareld would have realised that Dorian had taken it when he left home, almost as a keepsake of a place he never thought he would return to.

The boy turned out to the countryside to check on the criminal, but it was gone. With a curse, he took his bow from the ground and readied it again, hoping that perhaps the speck would return and he would have another chance.

"We need to talk," the mage said. He kept the shiver out of his voice, but the air was cold. The rain fell down on him and soaked through his clothes until it reached his skin, while a deep chill settled itself in his bones.

"Do we?" he said as Legionnaire returned to his side; "Has something happened?"

"No," Dorian replied; "It's a personal matter."

Fareld said nothing. Instead, he kept his eyes trained, looking at the mountains painted grey against a black sky, hiding in them an enemy more fearsome than ever Tevinter had faced. The rain only served to flood the land he held most dear.

The mage took a step beside him, arms folded. He himself could see no further than the mountains in the distance, and even then only nebulous details.

"I had a note sent to the house this morning." He said.

Once more, Fareld said nothing. Despite his silence, questions flooded his mind. He was a naturally curious child, and to hear one detail always spurred him to hear more, learn more, and either lose interest or become an expert.

Dorian sighed and changed the subject; "Fareld, Bryce and I are worried. You spend so much time in the rain and it's only going to make you ill."

"I don't need your worry," he said; "If the rain doesn't stop, I have to make sure I'm capable of shooting through it. Does a man win a war if he can't land a single hit?"

"There are more archers than just you, Fareld," Dorian reasoned; "Do you see them risking their health? Standing here in the pouring rain and giving their only cloaks to something with fur?"

"He was cold!" Fareld defended. His bow lowered, and the mage was half-relieved, half-anxious that he now had his son's full attention.

"And now you are too. Look at you! You're shivering."

It was true. The warmth he received from Dorian's cloak was invaluable, but still his body trembled, stiff as his bones were by the chill blowing in with the winds. But he refused to admit that to his father, whose eyes only radiated a deep concern, and in his frown showed how he cared for the boy.

"Don't you have a Herald to go speak to?" he spat.

"Yes, I do," was Dorian's reply; "but I prioritised coming to see you. And you're going to listen to me, because I didn't make this trip to be ignored."

Fareld opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out. Instead, he turned, pointedly aiming his bow at nothing as if in disregard of his father, though his ears listened despite his command for them not to.

The mage folded his arms again. He stood firm and resolute, even if he was as unsure of himself as he had ever been.

"I want you home at a reasonable hour tonight," he said, to which Fareld snorted; "and you _will_ sit with us at dinner. All of us."

"This is a war, not a time to play happy families!" Fareld spat. "I want to be out here making sure the Imperium stands tall, and you want me to be like you and run? Run from my duties as a Tevinter? I won't be like you!"

There was a moment of silence between them. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Fareld knew he had made a mistake, but he was unsure what it was. Still, he stayed firm, staring into his father's eyes as if challenging him to a fight.

Dorian reached over and took his bow, and before Fareld could protest it was strapped to his back.

"I'll be keeping this until dinner. When you've eaten, you can have it back."

"But-!"

"No arguments," he turned on his heel towards the ladder, and his tone was such that Fareld didn't want to push his luck further, though his blood boiled not to.

He watched his father descend to the ground. Fareld wanted to shout, wanted to scream obscenities and the like, but something held him back. Legionnaire, who somehow sensed his mood, nuzzled at his foot with his long snout, and it was then that the boy realised he was still wearing Dorian's cloak.

With a scowl he muttered; "I don't know either, Legion."

By the time Dorian had returned to the house, his anger had been replaced by sadness. With a glum expression he moved into the dining room, where he was surprised to find the Inquisitor hard at work, several documents spread over the table that seemed too important to risk leaving near the tents.

"Hey," he greeted. His eyes stayed rooted to the page.

"Hello," the mage replied, and even though he willed the melancholy from his voice, it refused to budge.

Bryce looked up. Concern marred his features. It only grew worse when he saw the frown on Dorian's face, complete with the bow strapped to his back that looked suspiciously like the one given to Fareld.

"Are you alright?" he asked, moving to rest a hand on his shoulder only to visibly flinch when he did so; "You're soaking! What's happened?"

"Nothing. Just Fareld. That boy's determined to give himself pneumonia."

"I may need a little elaboration."

Dorian sighed, but clarified; "I went to see him. I was planning on telling him about the letter that came through, but I was distracted. He was training again. He insisted on giving his cloak to Legionnaire, so I gave him mine."

"You must be freezing," he wrapped his arms around him, more because he wanted to comfort him than warm his skin; "Why was he even training? All of the archers are being taught sword work until the rain lets up."

"He says he wants to be sure he's able to shoot in bad weather. Honestly, I think he's afraid to fail. He's been taught so long that he's not worth anything, he's scared he'll prove it," Dorian squeezed his eyes shut before admitting; "He called me a coward."

"What?"

"He didn't say it explicitly, but he may as well have done. That's why I took his bow. That, and I actually want him home tonight, rather than out there catching his death."

"With the others here, he might be a little more inclined to apologise," Bryce said.

"I don't want an apology. I don't need one. He doesn't know the full story of why I left. It's easy to call me a coward when he isn't aware of what happened."

"Then we should tell him."

"No."

The Inquisitor could not say what surprised him more; Dorian's words, or the determined tone in which he said them. As he looked into his lover's eyes, as deep and firm as they were, it only further proved that he meant it.

"Why not?" he asked, more confused than anything else.

The mage explained; "What my father tried to do to me was awful, but I've closed that chapter of my life. Now, I have a son – a little boy, despite what he thinks, and I won't tell him why I left until I'm sure he's ready to handle it. With the war, the travelling and everything else, I'm not sure how much more his mind can take."

"So you're willing to have him think you're a coward?"

"I'm willing to give my life for that boy. I can't explain it, and I don't think I'll ever be able to, but you and Fareld are my chief concerns. Everything else – myself, my reputation, even Tevinter – comes second."

The Inquisitor, without words to comfort or cajole him, decided instead to offer another hug. Dorian took it without protest, and together they stood in a rare moment of peace, happy to be in each other's presence without a hundred eyes watching.

"What about the letter?" Bryce asked; "What are you going to tell him?"

"I don't know. I don't even know what she wants. Why would my mother send for us now, when we've been in the city for so long already?"

"Perhaps she's been afraid you're too busy?"

"That isn't like my mother," he sighed, and added with a scathing tone; "'I want to meet my grandson before he's murdered in this war.' She hasn't grown any subtler in her letter writing."

The Inquisitor gave him a look.

"I won't respond in kind," Dorian promised; "I'm just concerned what she'll think of him. More so what she'll say to him. Fareld hasn't been raised to her high standards, and he's like me. He doesn't care for formality."

Bryce chose that moment to smile. He himself had no concerns, but then he had no reason to. Dorian to him was a wonderful person, and Fareld he cared for deeply, even with no blood relation. He had vowed to himself that, no matter what, he would protect them both.

"I'm sure we'll figure it out. Now, will you come and help me?" he asked; "I could use your input on something."

And, pleased for the distraction from his tumultuous family life, Dorian agreed.


	22. Quiet Drinks by the Fireside

Fareld had always enjoyed music.

The Inquisition had brought bards enough to fill their taverns twice over, and in the city of tents built to accommodate the soldiers, melodies were most enjoyed.

Without his bow, and now with Legionnaire asleep, Fareld had decided to spend his time in the tavern. In his hand he held a cup of ale; not his favourite drink, but one of the best available with all the soldiers in town, for alcohol was in high demand and so the landlords were stretching their coffers thin.

His favourite bard was a young elf woman, who sang songs her Dalish mother had taught her long before. Her instrument of choice was a lute – the boy's most beloved, for he had always wanted to learn how to play, yet had never found the time to. He listened to her now singing her sweet lullabies by the fireplace, which was large and adorned with a black iron grate, complete with pokers at the side to stab the kindling.

Around him, there were the revellers. People who enjoyed what little life had to offer them, with what good company they had. Laughter rang through the air as abundant as music and together the soldiers sang, for together they were stronger, and together they stood firm. Where he sat between them, Fareld felt almost as though he didn't belong, which in turn made him drink more. What use had he to return home? There was no home for him there, amongst the people his father knew and he himself had no history with.

"Hey, kid."

Fareld glanced up in time to see Bull wedge himself between the soldiers. Their table was long, with two benches on either side that ran for about twelve feet, and both were full of men. The boy was almost surprised to see him able to find room, given his size and the extra space needed for his horns.

"Bull," he nodded at him, sipping his drink; "Late for you to be out, isn't it?"

The Qunari chuckled; "I could say the same about you. You missed dinner earlier, so I came to find you. Dorian isn't pleased."

"I could care less if Dorian's pleased. I've lived my life fine without him, and I've lived it without his rules, too. What he's done is essentially stolen my bow without good reason."

"And that's what you really believe?" there was no incredulity in Bull's voice. Instead, it held a genuine curiosity, as though through his tone he were extending his hand in friendship, willing as he was to hear Fareld's side of the story.

"He thinks I can't handle the cold," the child drank as he spoke, more out of anger than honest desire to; "I can, just fine. What I can't do is risk the rain making me less accurate. This war isn't easy for me to ignore – it isn't a case of losing and going home. This _is_ my home."

Bull raised an eyebrow; "And you assume we don't care as much as you do?"

The boy put his cup down and pushed it towards Bull. The Qunari took it as the sign of friendship it was, however subconscious the action may have been. With his great hand, he lifted it to his mouth and sipped.

_Ale_, he thought with a raised eyebrow: _The kid has taste, at least._

"Why would you?" Fareld replied; "You people return to New Haven after this, no matter what. Tevinter stands and so does your fortress. Tevinter falls, and you still have a place out there."

"And the countless thousands that would be killed? All the men we'd lose; their wives and children? How can we walk into this war without caring about it, when we're going to lose so many people?"

"The Herald is a good man. Men come in their hundreds to fight at his side, and with Cullen he trains them to become an army. There are few people who wouldn't join him if he asked them to."

"But we're more concerned with those in _this_ war," the Qunari pushed the cup back to Fareld, and the boy drank; "You drink ale, then?"

"No. But, with supplies so low and demands so high, I take what I can get. This is better than the swill they're drinking."

He was referring to the soldiers who sat around them, and in response he was given a good-natured jostle by the person beside him. The pair exchanged smiles, though they were fleeting and soon, Fareld's attention returned to Bull.

"I'm surprised the barmaids served you."

The boy laughed; "They see me as a soldier, and suppose I need to relax as much as one. I've never had a problem getting drinks. I did have problems keeping them down, though, when I was younger."

"How young are we talking?"

"Young enough," he replied, gesturing to his cup; "More?"

"No, thanks. I actually came here for a reason."

Fareld's hand flicked to the door where there stood a woman, her face painted to perfection and her eyes half-lidded. There were a few men who looked at her, but none gathered enough courage to speak with her.

"Prostitutes are over there," he said, then added with a sort of half-amused, half-despondent tone; "Not for business, of course. That's illegal."

The Qunari shook his head. Somewhere deep inside him, he was sad that Fareld knew the inner workings of the 'underworld,' as it were, where men and women were liable to sell themselves in order to live. Was there any part of his childhood that had been innocent? For his sake, Bull hoped they could fix at least some of what he'd seen.

"No, not for that. I want to bring you back to the house. Dorian needs to tell you something, and Bryce wants you where he could see you."

Fareld snorted.

"None of us want you out here in the cold."

"You can tell them I refuse to come back," he said; "There are plenty of other places for me to sleep. He can keep the bow, too. I'll find another."

The Qunari reached out and took the cup from him. For what it was worth, Fareld gave a squeak of indignation, but such was Bull's vastly superior strength that he made no effort to stop him.

"You're coming home," he told him; "even if I have to drag you out of here kicking and screaming."

The boy raised an eyebrow.

"You wouldn't dare."

For Fareld's part, he put up a good fight. He glided between the men, jumping as high as he could and causing quite the disruption, in an effort to keep out of Bull's grasp. The Qunari, however, was much taller than he was. Even when he had climbed up on the struts, all he had to do was reach up and snatch at his cloak, and he was caught.

"Let me go!" he shouted.

"Nope," was his response as the soldiers parted to let them through; "Time to go home, kid."

"I'm going to put an arrow through your eye!"

"I'd like to see you try."

Bull left with Fareld in arm, through the rain that poured heavy over the land, for he was on a mission to bring the boy some peace, and his father too.


	23. Strong Souls of Bravehearts

Bull had never met a child with as much fight in him as Fareld.

Perhaps it was due to how he had grown up, or how he had learnt to play with the hand life dealt him. The boy kicked and shouted, tore new marks in the Qunari's skin as he struggled, but the entire time it never felt personal; it was never an attack on Bull, but rather on what he represented.

"Put me down!" he demanded, over and over again; "Maker damn it, Bull, you'll live to regret this!"

The Qunari hummed some song as he moved through the streets. It was a lullaby he had heard as a child, and he found the more he sang it the fewer kicks Fareld gave him, though he didn't stop entirely. The rain poured down on them as a ceaseless torrent and, on the command of his subconscious, Bull put his hand over the boy's head to keep him at least a little dry.

"Fuck you," Fareld murmured as his energy began to falter. There were still kicks, of course, and still his nails made tiny wounds in Bull's skin, but with much less frequency. The fight never left him in its entirety. It was as intrinsic to his character as breathing was to his survival.

_Dorian's got his work cut out for him,_ the Qunari thought as he saw the manor in the distance, some candles in the window as if to guide him there: _Not even the Herald could make this kid compliant._

Inside the house, both Dorian and Bryce were together, waiting in the dining room with twin expressions of disquiet. The boy hadn't returned as his father had expected him too, and as the night went on so had his concern grown, worried that somehow Fareld had either hurt himself or found somewhere else to ply his trade. It was an irrational fear, of course. The others around him suspected that Fareld, although young and reckless, had chosen only to stay away for fear of retribution, and not because he had had some accident and was in need of help. Even Josephine, who for the most part had little contact with the boy, leant more towards the idea of a voluntary disappearance.

"Hey."

The mage looked up to the kind face of the Inquisitor, who reached over to settle his hand over Dorian's.

"It'll be okay," he said; "I'm sure Bull's already found him by now."

Dorian sighed and looked to the window, where the glass was decorated by splatters of rain. His fingers interlaced with Bryce's without him meaning for them to, but once they had he found it difficult to pull away.

"I know," he murmured; "I only worry how he's going to find him."

"Fareld reminds me too much of you to think he might be hurt," the Inquisitor smiled when he saw the involuntary twitch of Dorian's lips; "Besides, with the way he is, he won't let anything catch him off-guard without his permission."

Dorian laughed; "I think we've managed plenty of times."

"Then he must have given it somewhere along the line," Bryce joked.

The pair laughed, if softly, and even as it died away it left behind a sort of muted jollity. The mage rubbed his forehead with his free hand, allowing thoughts of his son to slowly enter his mind.

"What are we going to do?" he asked after a while, and his voice bordered on hopeless, even lost; "Fareld's made it evident he doesn't trust us. Or, at least, he doesn't trust me. You never seem to be in the firing line."

The Inquisitor shook his head; "He's given me a few tongue-lashings since we met."

His lover looked at him. There was a sort of amusement in his eyes, if a little despondent, and his thin moustache rose with his smile.

"Does he have any fear?" he asked.

"I think he just finds it difficult to trust people. And he's quick to take offence. It might come from the way he's grown up, you know."

"Ah, yes," Dorian gave another sigh; "The single slave mother having to leave him behind to work in a country house. It doesn't foster a healthy childhood, does it?"

"And I doubt it does wonders for people's outlook on life."

The mage shook his head. The house now was a little warmer, with a fire burning in the living room and the dining hall now a little messy, what with their efforts to feed an entire team of people. The chairs were left in a jumble, not because the guests were sloppy, but because all were tired and wanted nothing more than to retire to bed. For Dorian, it felt more like a home now than it had when they first arrived.

Bull approached the door just as the rain became heavier, and he was glad to clear the porch before he felt its full fury. The boy in his arms made small struggles, but so weak were they now that he barely had to hold on to him, and he found it no problem freeing one of his hands to knock.

"That must be them now," Bryce said as he stood, though Dorian beat him to the door.

It was flung open to reveal Bull and Fareld, the boy limp and almost lifeless in Bull's arms as the Qunari moved inside, both of them dripping wet trails on the floor. The initial sight of Fareld threw Dorian's mind into a state of panic, but seconds later he saw a weak kick of his son's foot, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

From Fareld's bag Legionnaire appeared, and the fox was quick to scuttle off towards the fireplace. There he laid, content to be near the warmth, as behind him the men went about their business.

"Where was he?" Bryce asked as soon as Bull came in.

"The tavern," Bull replied; "and he was live and kicking, too."

"Fuck you," Fareld said, though weakly, and Dorian extracted him from the Qunari's arms to hold him himself. He was surprised to find the boy did nothing. He didn't even protest as his temple fell against his father's chest, eyelids drooping.

"He looks exhausted."

"A combination of drink, hunger, and not enough rest. It didn't stop him from giving as good as he got, though."

"_Drink_?" Dorian said; "As in…?"

"Ale. Not too heavy, but enough to give someone a buzz. By the sounds of it, he's not a first-timer, either."

The mage shook his head; "He's soaking. He can't go to bed like this. And he's not eaten."

"A bath should help warm him up. The smell of something edible might make him eat, too." Bull suggested, and it was in a way that betrayed a sort of deeper wisdom, letting shine that Ben-Hassrath training that he was quietly thankful for.

Dorian nodded and went to the stairs. There, he said to Bryce:

"I'll make up a bath. You get the food. And feed the fox, too. He won't be happy if he knows we let Legion starve all night."

With that, the mage vanished upstairs, his surprisingly compliant son in arm. Bryce watched them until they had disappeared beyond the balustrades, and he heard the sound of a door opening somewhere in the house.

"Bull, I can't thank you enough for finding him," the Inquisitor said when he turned to his friend; "You've set mine and Dorian's minds at ease."

The Qunari nodded in his modest way; "No problem, Boss. Sounds like he wouldn't have come back had no one forced him to."

"Was it much trouble getting him home?"

"He caused quite the commotion down at the tavern. Nothing the barmaids haven't seen before, I suspect. I've never seen a kid jump on the roof-beams, though – no, that's a first. He put up a good fight."

"The roof-beams?" Bryce repeated with a slight tone of incredulity; "How did he manage that?"

"Well, he did jump on someone else's head to do it, but that's a pretty high leap in itself."

The Inquisitor gave a laugh, soft as it was, and patted Bull's shoulder. It was then he realised that he was bleeding.

"Did Fareld do this to you?" he asked, an eyebrow raised and his voice once more in disbelief, as if he was surprised a boy could pierce the skin of a Qunari.

"I told you, he put up a good fight," Bull said; "But it doesn't hurt. Takes a lot more than that to bring down old Iron Bull. I've never met a kid with that much kick in him."

"He's definitely Dorian's son," Bryce agreed as he turned his friend round, inspecting the wounds Fareld had left. They were sharp, tiny crescent moons, some decorated with dried blood and obviously made by fingernails, but some ran down enough to resemble slashes. There were bruises to Bull's stomach, too, which now bloomed against his metallic skin like purple flowers.

"It doesn't hurt," the Qunari repeated as though to reassure him; "Fareld may be feisty, but he's better with a bow than he is bare-handed. Now, if he went at me with that, I might need a healer. These are fine."

"Well, get some rest," Bryce said reluctantly; "and feel free to lay in tomorrow. You've earned it."

"We all care about the kid, Boss. Even Cullen said he's got potential, and coming from him, that's a big deal. Sera wants to see how he uses his bow and Solas thinks he's found a possible Fade enthusiast."

The Inquisitor put his hand to his forehead; "The Fade? Really?"

"Not so much exploring it as researching it," Bull assured him; "But that all counts on whether or not you can convince him to come back with us, after all this is over with. I won't lie to you, Boss – Fareld isn't going to survive here much longer. He's vulnerable and if he pulls stunts like crossing entire regions, however necessary it might be, his luck will soon run out."

"And you think I can convince him to come back with us?"

"You convinced Dorian to stay, didn't you?"

"He chose to. He didn't want to lose me by coming back and trying to change Tevinter. People who do get assassinated, he said."

"Imagine how long until Fareld's on that hit-list," Bull replied.

There was a moment of silence between them, and it was then that Bryce realised that he could hear taps running upstairs. It seemed Tevinter nobles had the luxury of running water. The manor had been fitted with it when it was built, Dorian told him, in anticipation of the wife and many children he would never have.

"I should get the food," the man said to his companion; "You go upstairs and rest. And thanks, again."

"No problem, Boss," Bull moved towards the stairs, which he ascended with an unhurried ease; "See you tomorrow."

Upstairs, in a bathroom made luxurious with porcelain, ceramics and the like, Dorian gently eased his son down into the bath, itself made from a fine copper, painted to match its surroundings. Fareld's clothes laid in an untidy heap at his side. There were many wounds on the boy which his father inspected – his odd complacency almost unnerved him, but he made no complaints – and found that most were simply old cuts or injuries made during his time as an archer.

"There," he murmured; "That's better."

Warmth spread throughout the bathroom. There was a certain tranquillity in the air, and Dorian was glad that his son could make no remarks, rude or otherwise. Instead, Fareld allowed him to wash his hair, so like Dorian's own, his eyelids drooping as that magic combination Bull had mentioned pulled him into the depths of exhaustion.

There was that mark made by the arrow that struck Fareld when first they met. It had healed somewhat, leaving behind only a small scar. Perhaps when the boy was older, the scar would bring him memories. Perhaps not. A wound he concerned himself with was a faint mark that ran across his wrist. He had heard of them before, and in certain dismay he realised it was indeed self-inflicted, if very old.

In the back of his mind, Dorian told himself he would break Fareld of that habit, if it was a habit at all.

It was tender, the affection with which his father handled him, cleaning him and slowly pulling him from the water and into a towel. There were few clothes available for Fareld, so instead he made do with one of Bryce's shirts.

_He won't mind_, he reason with a small smile: _Fareld needs it more than him, after all._

He returned him to his room, where the boy was laid down in his bed. In the trip from the bathroom to the bedroom, Fareld had fallen asleep. The Inquisitor soon came with a bowl of food and, after assuring Dorian that Legionnaire was fed, left it on the boy's bedside table.

"He'll eat it eventually," he reasoned; "We shouldn't wake him up."

"I should have never taken his bow," Dorian said, glancing at it propped up in the old chair by the arched window, where the silk blue curtains were drawn.

"You asserted your authority, and he lashed out. It's a bad reaction, but at least he knows the limits now. If we keep at it…" he thought for a moment, and said; "Well, we can only hope he starts respecting them."

The mage folded his arms, looking down at his son with a quiet frown.

"There's a mark on his wrist," he said, to which he received a look from his lover; "Self-inflicted. Old. I doubt it went very deep."

"Are there any others?"

"No. Just that one, and the ones he couldn't have made himself. I doubt it's a habit. Still, with the war going on-"

Bryce's arm wrapped around his shoulder in comfort, and in silence reassured him that, together, they would keep an eye on Fareld.

Both Dorian and Bryce looked down at him for a long while. They made no moves towards the door, though in their minds both knew they should. The boy looked peaceful; his face was soft, his features tranquil, and in the silence of the room they could hear his little breathes, saw his chest rise and fall with each one he took.

"If we ever discover _you_ have a long-lost child, I hope it's a girl. I've heard they're much easier to deal with."

The pair laughed and, if reluctantly, slowly crept out of Fareld's room, casting looks over their shoulder to be sure the boy was asleep. Dorian was glad he had been returned, and in his mind he wondered if now that meant he was indebted to Bull; a thought that frankly made him want to groan.


	24. The Morning After

Dawn broke over Minrathous, and as the sun rose so too did most men with it.

Fareld awoke with the rest, for he was by no means a light sleeper, but an anxious one. There were few times he could recall when he had slept through the night, and fewer still when that sleep had been a peaceful one.

Dorian had left a set of clothes in his room – his own, clean and dry. It was when he saw these that he realised he was wearing a man's shirt. Fareld blushed when he realised he had seen Bryce wear it before, and in an almost urgent manner he undid each of the buttons and threw it to the side, donning his own clothes as if reclaiming his identity.

Downstairs, he was greeted to the table with a round of 'hellos,' and saw many faces he had only seen in passing. Josephine was on one side of the table, in the middle, with Vivienne, Varric, Cassandra, Blackwall, Sera and Cole at either side of her, and on the other there sat Cullen, Bryce, Dorian, Bull, Leliana and Solas, with a free seat available for the boy.

Fareld gave them all looks of mistrust. He half-turned towards the living room, as if he thought to escape, and for a moment all that existed between them was a tense silence.

"Angry," he heard the insane mutterings of Cole, who to his knowledge was not truly mad; "He's angry. I can hear it. On the edge of his tongue. He wants to accept, but he can't find the words. He drowns in something larger."

The Herald raised an eyebrow, but for the most part called no attention to Cole's words; "Come and sit down, Fareld. You must be hungry."

"Where's Legionnaire?" he asked. His reply came in the form of his pet skidding out from under the table, and his face lit up with a smile as he fell to his knees, petting the eager head that came to greet him.

"Come and eat," Bryce said once more; "Legionnaire's been fed."

Despite his assurances, Fareld spent a good portion of the meal feeding morsels to his fox. He himself ate sparingly, a fact which Dorian noted and told to his lover through surreptitious glances.

Fareld sat beside Bull and Solas, where the free seat had been left, and as the conversation around him continued he paid it no mind. It wasn't until Dorian spoke to him that he looked up.

"Fareld, we have a dinner party to attend tomorrow," said he, and before the boy could protest went on; "Mother's invited us to meet with the other Magisters. All of us."

"An Inquisition banquet?" he murmured.

"Banquets are loud," Cole said in his perpetually nervous voice; "Lots of mages in attendance."

"Ain't nothing to worry about, Cole. Magisters don't air their secrets in the open. You're safe," Varric said, to which he received a sharp glare from Fareld.

The boy spoke; "And why does this concern me? I'm a soldier of the Imperium, not the Inquisition."

"Your grandmother wants to meet you."

"My grandmother can go-"

Before he could finish his sentence, Solas diplomatically interrupted it; "It would be good if you came with us. With the weather as it is, you aren't likely to train."

"He does still. The cold doesn't stop him," Cole murmured; "There's nothing but a bow left."

"Regardless, Fareld, you're coming with us. We need as many of our supporters there as possible – and you're one of them, like it or not."

There was a scowl on his face as he replied to Bryce; "In war breeds necessity."

A cup of water was pushed towards him and, on encouragement from Solas, Fareld drank. Once more he ate sparingly, but what he did eat was a good balance of foods, and though Legionnaire still scavenged most of what he had he kept enough to feed himself.

"So, kid," Bull said in a low voice, so that the others were aware but paid no heed to their conversation; "You put up a good fight last night. I'm almost impressed."

"And what _would_ impress you?" he replied; "You brought me back against my will. I had to defend myself."

"You seemed plenty tired when we got here."

"You try fighting an eight foot Qunari! Anyone would be tired!"

Bull smiled and patted Fareld's head, though with a roll of the eyes from Fareld. There were marks still in his metallic skin, but such was the small effect the boy had on him they had already started to heal. The crescent moons his fingernails had cut were now tiny scabs, and soon they would vanish, unlike the memories that now cemented themselves to Fareld's mind. He had never expected to lose a fight against a Qunari. Then, he had never expected to defend one from his own people.

The boy glanced up. Across from him, he caught the eyes of Cole, and for a moment the pair stared at each other in mutual perplexity. Fareld's brow furrowed; the man's face seemed eternally sad, cut from the rest of life, and somewhere in his expression there was the taint of something more – something that was neither human nor spirit, nor anything else he had ever come across. Aside from his glum expression, he seemed a rather unassuming person to have at hand.

Dorian watched his son from where he sat beside Bryce. He knew the instant that they turned their back on him, Fareld would be out in the rain with that infernal bow. The boy paid no heed to what they said. He was his own agent, or so he believed, and he would break every rule they sat to prove to them he was able to do things on his own.

And so, he had devised a plan. That day, the boy was to be supervised; Bull, Solas, Varric and Sera were to keep their eyes on him, and together he hoped the quartet could at least keep his son in sight. If he escaped them, Dorian knew he had no chance to keep him grounded. His was to be an existence of risk and, one day, the result of those risks.

Soon, breakfast ended, and with weary sighs the people stood to attend to their duties. Fareld equipped his bow and made for the door, but found himself stopped by Solas.

"The Herald's put us in the manor today," he informed the boy, and ignoring his protests went on; "We're to stay here and research. You, Bull, Varric and Sera, as well as myself."

Fareld's brow furrowed, as he saw through the ruse immediately; "I don't need a babysitter."

"No," Dorian moved towards them, dressed now in his mage robes that Fareld realised he had worn the day before; "You need four. The Inquisitor thinks you're better spent here, where you can help the others with their research. Anything you learn will be passed on to Cullen's men."

"I know the entire history of Tevinter, the layout of Minrathous, the golems and their care, how to shoot an arrow in impossibly tight spaces – if you want to know anything, I can tell you right now!"

Solas calmed him in his soothing tone; "It's a precaution, Fareld. We need you here, in case we run across some bad information. You could tell us what's right and wrong, and we can change our notes accordingly."

"Then why Bull, Varric and Sera?" he asked; "None of them are researchers, not in the slightest."

"Because our skills out there aren't needed," Varric said as he approached, standing at Dorian's side, for he had been warned of Fareld's strong character and felt he could at least contend with it; "In the rain, we can't train with our bows. That means Sera, you and I can't do much. Bull's men are on scouting missions and Solas has done all he can with the mage formations. Five heads together is better than four and one wasted."

"I'm an _archer_, not an academic!"

Those words struck Dorian more than he thought they would. His son saw more kinship with his skills than he did his intelligence; and his intelligence deserved so much more credit than it received. He looked at him now, seething in his muted way, and let for a moment a sort of mercy take hold of his heart.

"_If_ you behave yourself," he said; "Tomorrow you can help Cullen with the battle plans."

"Why do I need your permission to do anything?" Fareld spat in reply.

Beside him, Bull and Sera appeared. The elven archer was quiet, but the Qunari felt comfortable enough to say:

"Do you really want another episode like last night, kid?"

There was silence. For one mad moment, Fareld considered attacking them. But then he sighed, his entire body relaxing, and as the tension bled out of his bones so too did he realise he would not win in an outright fight, nor would he gain the freedom he was aiming for.

"Fine," he murmured; "but the moment I feel I'm more needed out there, I won't hesitate to leave."

Between them, Dorian, Bull and Solas passed looks of mutual understanding, and the trio mentally told each other that the boy would be kept in place.


	25. Wounded Hearts

Fareld and Sera were two people who devoted their life to archery, while Varric had picked it up out of necessity. Solas had known, even as he worked, that eventually their conversation would diverge on to the path of marksmanship, and by then he would be too late to stop it. He listened to the pair as they spoke of techniques, training, kill quotas and more – and then the inevitable challenges came.

"There must be a middle ground between competition and outright danger."

"If you think of one, let us know."

Solas would forever wonder how Fareld had persuaded them to allow him on the roof. Rain fell all over the land, for in the distance he could see the slanting showers as they whipped across the countryside, and the city of tents so far from them under its fury. Behind him Bull had stayed inside – the wiser of them – as the elf balanced on the slick tiles of the manor's roof, careful not to put a foot out of place. The result would be fatal.

"Fareld," he implored to the boy, who stood at the very edge of the roof with his bow in hand, lining a shot with some object in the distance; "Come inside. You and Sera can do this in the garden."

Sera stood next to him, balanced too on the edge, but without her bow. She was to go next. Varric sat on the windowsill where they had clambered on the roof, and behind him Bull stood in silence, a sort of anxious gnawing at both their guts. Fareld paid them no mind.

"Lighten up," Sera replied, an enthusiastic grin on her face as she glanced their way; "It's a bit of friendly competition. We're safe. Promise."

"It's an archer thing," Fareld added, though he still didn't turn to them, too focused on whatever target had caught his eye; "If one of your own kind challenges you, you do it or you admit they're the better marksman. And I'm the better marksman."

The elf beside him laughed; "We'll see about that, squirt."

"There are so many more, less dangerous ways to settle this," the mage pointed out; "There's an entire set of trees in the garden."

Solas had his hand on the window pane for support, as he and the others weren't as reckless as their companions. In his mind, images of Dorian flashed; if the man were to ever find out what had happened, what they had allowed Fareld to do, he would have their heads.

The boy lined up his shot. It was a metal cockerel in the distance, balanced on a place of worship, and only one thought was spared for those that wandered through the streets below it. The arrow would rebound from the target. It would lose the momentum to hurt people. All he had to do was be sure he got the head, which he and Sera had designated the 'money shot.'

"There's something not quite right with that kid," Varric informed them with a bemused air.

"He knows what he wants," Bull said; "and he's not afraid to go after it."

"I just wish that initiative was used for more than just breaking rules." There was weariness in Solas' voice, though even he was fond of Fareld. There was something endearing about him; something that the elf couldn't quite define, and yet couldn't quite ignore.

"You know his dad and the Inquisitor aren't going to be happy about this, don't you?" Varric said as he watched the scene unfold, with Fareld still preparing his shot and making allowances for the weather.

"If they ever find out about this, I'll blame it on you."

"Why me?" he protested; "I wasn't the one who gave them the idea!"

"No, but you did mention archery in the first place, and that set off a chain reaction. If anyone's at fault here, it's you."

The dwarf looked to Bull, who had stayed quiet; "You'll vouch for me, won't you?"

"All we have to say is that Fareld ran out on the roof before we could stop him," the Qunari told them; "Dorian won't be best pleased, but he knows what the kid's like."

It was then a voice called out to them; "You know I can hear everything you're saying?"

Fareld let loose his shot. The arrow whistled through the air, soaring like a thin bird, as it made its way towards the cockerel. Had a gust of wind not then blown, he would have hit its head. Instead, the weathervane span round to the side, allowing for his shot to glide past and into a sack of mortar on the construction site behind. There, it lodged itself in the burlap.

"Damn it!" he shouted.

Sera laughed; "Out of the way, squirt. My turn."

"Hey, that wasn't a fair shot," he argued; "The weathervane turned. I should have another chance."

"There are no second chances. You get one shot and if it goes bad, tough luck!" she bounced before him, aiming her own shot for the cockerel's head, to Fareld's annoyance.

The boy's brow furrowed as she took an arrow from her quiver. Looking down at his bag to see two sharp eyes looking up at him, he smiled, and with his wicked grin put the end of his bow near Sera's legs.

_No second chances? _He thought with glee: _At least I managed to hit something, Sera!_

Just as the archer went to take her shot, he hit her calves. Sera's hands slipped as she yelped in surprise, and the arrow whirled out into the distance like a frightened hen, soon to fall in the street without enough speed to hurt passers-by.

"Hey!" she said, but the boy had taken flight. Solas shouted as he realised Fareld had made himself fall so as to slide down the tiles. The elf hurried back inside the manor as the boy fell into the garden, and with all the speed of an infuriated bear he took off through the streets.

The quarter left behind made a panicked beeline towards the door. When it was flung open they were after him, shouting orders for him to return, but Fareld didn't heed them. He was too fast, his lungs burning with a mixture of laughter and exhilaration, as Legionnaire barked encouragement for him to run.

"This was supposed to be a simple babysitting job!" Varric puffed, trying to keep up with his longer legged companions.

"Nothing's simple when Fareld's involved!"

"I'll take a short cut!" the dwarf turned into one of the alleyways; "I know the area. Keep on him!"

The trio left kept up the chase, much to Fareld's delight. For him it was a game – a show that he was faster than them, more cunning than them, and could easily slip away if he wanted to. He didn't want to cause any physical harm; all he wanted was to prove himself to them, in whatever way possible. To him, the alleyways were his haven, the buildings his sanctuary, and he knew the people that followed had only a basic knowledge of it all. This was his domain. Fareld couldn't be dictated to there, for no one could catch him if he didn't want to be caught.

In the streets, he was in control.

"Crap!" Bull paused when the boy fled down a narrow passageway; "I'm not going to get through there."

Solas and Sera kept hurrying towards it, though they half-turned towards the Qunari to hear his verdict.

"I'll go round! He's heading towards where the golems are kept. Meet you at the gardens!"

Bull vanished through a different passage, unsafe as he was with the racism prevalent in Tevinter, while the pair went forward. They caught up to Fareld just as the boy rounded the corner to a small back-passage way.

"Heard about this place," Sera breathed heavily beside her companion; "The underbelly of society. Be careful here, Solas."

The elves' running became more a series of jogs and half-hops, because the adrenaline hadn't yet left their veins but their caution had increased. Around them the houses became more tattered and the walls crumbled, and soon they realised they had entered the part of the city that no tourist saw – the part where the rich turned a blind eye, the poor were mugged and homes looted, and politics had no real power.

And amongst the cracked streets and criminals, Fareld was alone.

"Fareld?" the mage called out; "Fareld? Are you here?"

It was as though there was a constant miasma in the streets, though in truth the roads were just too narrow and the houses too close to allow light through. Shattered glass was left on the ground, shops were given crude names – 'The Dressed Whore' being Sera's favourite – and for a moment the pair felt as if they had fallen into a torpor, the grim atmosphere almost suffocating.

No birds sang. There were few people on the streets, and those that were came in two forms: The poor or the unlawful. They hung about in shady doorways and shadowed alley lips, watching Solas and Sera with suspicious eyes, for they knew they didn't belong.

"Where is he?" Sera asked; "Fareld, this isn't funny! Come out! A prank's one thing, but this-!"

Without Bull or Varric at their sides, Solas felt somewhat exposed. He trusted his companion enough to be able to fend some people off. He knew his own magic would defend their ground. But the thundering of his heart would have been much weaker if he had the reassurance of an eight-foot Qunari, or a shrewd dwarf who knew criminals as much as he knew nobility.

"Keep close. He's bound to be somewhere."

"Fareld!"

"There's no use calling him," the mage advised her, as from an unlit corner of the street he saw wild eyes glance up to them, vacant of sanity; "He won't come out."

"He has to. Dorian's going to kill us if we don't find him!" she said, crying out his name once more.

"We'll find him. We've got the whole day until Dorian comes home, and even then he might stay behind to help the Inquisitor. We _will_ find him."

The further they went the more crooked the houses became, the more lewd the shops. A single tavern was open and filled with punters, but these people were quiet and melancholy, drinking away pain rooted deep in the past.

"Hold on," Solas said to Sera as he spied a blonde woman near the door – a barmaid, if her tray of empty pint-glasses was anything to go by; "I'll ask if they've seen a boy come through."

He went to her, a pretty young thing with wide green eyes, human, he realised with a frown, and asked her if she had seen a boy with a bag pass by.

"Ah, Fareld?" she replied with a smile, expertly balancing her tray; "I saw him run through here a little while ago. He was in a hurry. Didn't think anything of it."

Her knowing Fareld's name was lost on Solas as he asked; "Do you know where he might be going?"

"He's on good terms with Gnaeus. If he's going anywhere, it's to him."

The barmaid gave Solas general directions and informed him to steer clear of their 'park,' and with a parting word of thanks he returned to Sera. The archer was waiting on the streets, her arms folded and her nose wrinkled, though not in disgust.

"A blacksmiths," he told her as he set up a brisk pace, passing her by so that she had to catch up; "The owner's name is Gnaeus. Apparently he and Fareld know each other."

"How?" she asked. She matched his pace with ease, and deep inside her she felt responsibility for the boy's escape – after all, she had refused him a second chance.

"Fareld sometimes does work for him. Scouts rare metals around Minrathous. He's paid a tidy sum." Solas' brow furrowed, his head reflecting what little light there was; "He told us his mother provided for him."

"Maybe it's like pocket money?" she suggested; "Not enough to live off, but enough to buy sweets. Or something."

The mage gave a grunt of agreement, but it was obvious to them both he wasn't convinced.

The streets rarely changed, and after a while Solas wondered if the barmaid had given him the wrong directions. However, soon enough they reached the blacksmiths – darkly named 'The Anvil's Curse' – and in the dusty window the pair could see nothing but a crest; an anvil and a hammer immortalised in stained glass, a sad emblazonment for a past now gone.

"Is this it?" Sera asked incredulously; "This doesn't look like it's even open."

Solas moved to the dull brass handle of the place and, with a twist, the door opened. With one eyebrow raised and his eyes almost half-lidded, he gave a look to the archer.

"Alright, alright – no need to show off."

The pair went inside. There were a few candles light, for even in the day it seemed dark as night, and the interior was at least comfortable. A counter was set up to receive customers and many weapons were on display, some of which surprised Solas in their craftsmanship. There were designs more intricate than he imagined, some more so than he had seen. A few of the more impressive pieces were set up on satin cushions, standing on pillars carved from stone, but were not weighted to the floor by anything but their own bulk.

There was a door behind the counter, and the floor was clean and swept. The door opened. Both of their hands went to their weapons, a reflex too ingrained in their minds to stop, as out walked a rather young man with a heavy black beard, bright eyes directing attention from his wild mass of hair.

"Hello," he said, not without a level of surprise in his voice; "What can I do you for?"

It occurred to Solas that they looked nothing like his regular customers, but he pushed that thought aside.

"Have you seen a boy?" he asked, and saw a spark of something in the man's eyes; "We were told he'd come here. Fareld Evodius. Do you know him?"

"I might. Why?"

"We're looking for him. We need to bring him back home," Sera said; "and if we don't, we're going to have our heads ripped off."

There was a moment of pause. The man put his hands on the counter, going, Solas noticed, into a defensive position.

"Can't say I know a Fareld Evodius," he said; "I haven't seen a boy come through in days. Kids don't buy weapons much, you see."

Solas' brow furrowed. Behind the door, there was a noise, and as the pair's heads rose towards it they saw the man's eyes squeeze together, as if mentally cursing himself.

"Spare us the lies, Gnaeus," the mage said, which was returned by a look of shock; "We know he's here. Fareld? Fareld! Come out!"

There was a long moment of silence that followed. Just as Solas made move towards the door, it opened, and out of it stepped Fareld, his brow knitted together as he looked up at them.

"You caught me," he said; "Now what?"

Just before the pair could reply – Solas in anger, Sera in relief – they heard the front door creak open again. They turned, expecting to see some customer enter, but found themselves instead face to face with the only two people they didn't want to see.

Dorian and Bryce had come to Gnaeus on the advice of Cullen, who had heard tell from Leliana that a skilled blacksmith was living in the city slums, away from public eye. They had come to the dreary little streets expecting nothing less, but as they entered the Anvil's Curse, neither of them had expected to see Solas and Sera there, too.

"Solas? Sera?" Bryce said in surprise; "What are you doing here?...Hold on – _why_ are you here?"

Dorian glanced down and caught sight of the boy before he could escape. His reaction was instant.

"Fareld!" he exclaimed; "Maker's breath, what are you doing here? I told you to stay at the manor!"

"Fareld?" the Inquisitor looked to him, the confusion spreading even further; "What? What's going on?"

The mage made to explain, made to tell them what had happened and how they had come to be there, but it seemed that all elements of luck were working against him that day. Just as he began to speak, the door opened again, only to allow in Iron Bull and Varric, both of whom looked exhausted.

"Oh, thank the Lord!" Varric said, having not caught sight of Dorian and Bryce; "There you are, Fareld!"

"What?" Dorian said, commandeering the attention of all spectators as he folded his arms, a cross between confusion and severity on his face; "What do you mean 'there you are?' What's going on?"

Again, there was silence for a long moment. Fareld was quiet, knowing in his heart that he had overstepped a line as he lent his gaze to the floor. Then, filling the air with a weary sigh, Solas explained.

With each word that fell from his lips, both Dorian's and Bryce's frown became deeper, more austere. Once it was over, they glanced towards the boy with their arms crossed, their eyes narrowed, and in their gazes they conveyed a mixture of anger, annoyance, and disappointment.

"We'll deal with you later," Dorian ominously promised him; "Right now, we have to speak to Gnaeus."

The blacksmith, who wasn't used to his shop being filled with that many people, looked up in surprise. He could hear the Tevinter accent, could see an Imperium designed robe, but to him the mage didn't carry himself like most of the people he saw.

"Me, sir?"

The Inquisitor moved forward; "Yes, Mister Gnaeus. We've heard you're a good blacksmith. One of the best, some say."

"My father was the best blacksmith in all of Tevinter," he said proudly; "All the people of Minrathous once came to him for weapons. Before he went blind and joined the Maker, he taught me everything I know."

"We were wondering if you'd be interested in helping us," Bryce gave his proposal in the tone of a friend, not business-like and brisk; "Our Quartermaster has her men, but we need more experienced people to shape the metal and make armour. With the war-"

"I don't make a profit out of other people's misery, sir. I only give them what they need."

Bull chipped in; "Without weapons, we aren't going to be able to protect Minrathous. That's a lot more misery than a couple of weapons can give."

Gnaeus paused as if pondering his words. Bryce went on.

"There's no shortage of metal, just skilled men to handle it," he explained; "A lot of the Imperium soldiers might feel better if they saw their own people doing it. It could help boost morale."

"Well…" he glanced at Fareld, who looked up at him. In the boy's eyes he pleaded, as if telling him that all hope was lost if he refused, and when he saw that he found himself compelled to agree.

"Right, I'll do it," he said, but added; "As long as you know that I'm not making surplus weapons just for the sake of it. Everyone gets one, in good condition, with good metal, and if they break that they'll have to show me so I know they aren't trying to wrangle another piece."

The Inquisitor smiled; "I can agree to those terms. So, you'll do it?"

"Consider me a friend to the Inquisition," he replied.

They left soon after that, once Bryce had given instructions for Gnaeus to meet them at the city of tents the next morning, bright and early. As they travelled towards the manor, Dorian and his lover said nothing to Fareld. Both of them were calming down before they dealt with the matter.

Behind them, Fareld trailed in the rain.

"Kid!" Bull called, gesturing for him to hurry; "Come on."

It was a tacit command he followed.

They reached the house, and inside the group gathered in the living room. Legionnaire felt the tension and escaped back to the fire, where there was nothing but ashes left.

Before Fareld, Dorian and Bryce folded their arms, letting their gazes fall expectantly on the boy. There was a prolonged moment of quiet before his hand rose up, pointing at Sera.

"It was Sera's fault."

"Hey!" she protested; "I didn't do anything! You were the one who ran off!"

"You were the one who wouldn't give me a fair chance!"

"You hit me! _And_ you said we should play from the roof!"

"Solas was the one who let us!"

Dorian looked in horror at the mage; "What?!"

Before Solas could reply, Sera exclaimed; "Varric was the one who brought up archery in the first place!"

"Hey, wait a minute-" the dwarf was interrupted by Fareld.

"Besides, the weathervane turned! I didn't miss it – the wind blew it the other way! Bull can vouch for me!"

He turned expectant eyes to Bull, and the Qunari, seeing the descent of the conversation, simply said; "He's right – the weathervane did turn."

Dorian pressed his fingers into his eyes for a moment, letting out a heavy exhale. The accusations stopped flying and all were silent, with the Inquisitor giving a shake of his head.

"Everyone except Fareld, out." The mage instructed, and his orders were quickly followed.

The boy stood before them in silence, tiny against their height, and for once without a retort. He knew he had crossed a line. He had done something reckless even by his standards. As he waited for what he thought would be a beating, Fareld counted the seconds all was silent.

"Fareld," Bryce said after a while, arms still folded, but with one hand moving as he spoke; "Why did you run away?"

He glanced down and murmured; "Because I can."

"No, you can't. You can't do that," Dorian said; "You can't risk your life like that. Anything could have happened to you."

He was silent. There was no more to be said.

Bryce spoke; "We aren't trying to dictate your life to you, Fareld. All we want is for you to be safe."

The boy gave an incredulous snort; "All you ever do is dictate!"

"We're trying to stop you from being reckless and acting like your life doesn't matter!" Dorian replied; "Every time you run off, Fareld, you take your life into your hands! Even in Minrathous, you're risking yourself!"

"I had my bow!"

"And dead adventurers had their swords, spirits their staves, and everyone who died in battle had armour! You are _not_ invincible, Fareld – and even if you were, we'd still not stop worrying about you!"

"I never asked for your worry! I don't need it and I don't want it!"

"Well it's something you'll have to live with, because it's not going to change!"

Fareld moved forward in a burst of rage, shoving Dorian back with all of his might, but even in his fury the effects of the chase were hampering him. The mage was only pushed a couple of steps back, and the boy recoiled in a defensive stance, glaring up at them both with fists clenched.

"I'm not your perfect statue to shape and mould!" he spat; "I'm not some work of art waiting to happen! I'm Fareld – I'm Fareld and I'm me! I didn't ask to be left alone, I didn't ask for Mother to leave me, I didn't ask to be an archer and I sure as Hell didn't ask for you to come into my life, trying to make me different! Stop trying to change me, because I'm not yours to change!"

The pair stared at each other for a long while, a wild glare in Fareld's eyes, which soon gave way. His emotions overflowed to the point of tears; they welled in his eyes and poured like the rain outside, like rivers bursting for having been too long shut off, and dams breaking somewhere deep inside his mind.

"I don't understand what people want from me!" he cried, and in a moment Dorian had lifted him from the ground and into his arms, for the reaction seemed instinctive. The boy rubbed his eyes in an effort to stop the tears, but all he did was wet them more.

He shushed him in a soothing voice, bouncing him in a gentle rhythm like he had a baby in his arms; "No one wants anything from you."

"People _always_ want something! Always!" his head fell into the man's shoulder, perhaps forgetting in his despair that he was supposed to hate the man; "I try so hard but I still get it wrong!"

Bryce dared to rub the back of the boy's head, and found his actions weren't rebuffed. Legionnaire, now concerned for his owner, lingered at Dorian's feet, but the fox made no move to snap at the pair.

"There, there," the mage soothed; "It's alright now."

"No," he sniffed; "because now the war's coming and everyone's going to die."

"Have you met Bryce? I've seen countless examples when he should have died, but here he is. No one's going to die, Fareld. Not even you. Especially not you."

Another sniff; "How do you know?"

"Because we won't let you," the Inquisitor promised. His hand rested on the nape of Fareld's neck and his arm looped around Dorian's waist, as though bringing them both in for a hug.

Fareld made no move to stop them, and soon, the mage gestured to the stairs with his head. His wordless suggestion was caught by Bryce.

"Let's go get ourselves dry and warm," he agreed; "I'm sure Cullen can handle things for a while."


	26. Suffering in Slumber

That night, under watchful stars, Dorian stood sentinel on his bedroom balcony.

Fareld had long since fallen asleep, after many tears and reassurances. The boy laid on his father's bed with his fox curled beside him, and outside Dorian could see them through the balcony's double doors, his arms folded and a soft smile on his face.

On the bedside table a candle threw out soft light. It cast on the walls contorted shadows which danced with the flame, and in its gentle orange glow Fareld's face seemed at ease, almost delicate. Legionnaire's snout laid across his cheek, his paws tucked downwards to his neck, as all the house was still and silent, void now of people chattering.

The bedroom door opened. Dorian was pulled out of his reverie, and without a second thought went to see Bryce come in. He greeted him with a small smile.

"Is he still asleep?" the Inquisitor asked when he caught sight of Fareld. He moved to one of the wooden chairs that sat in front of the fireplace, the fireplace itself a large marble thing with an iron grate, and from the plush mahogany cupboard beside it retrieved two glasses and a decanter of whisky.

"He is," replied the mage, taking the seat across from him; "Hasn't even stirred. I think he's exhausted, after the day he's had."

Whisky was poured and passed, the sound of it like music to Dorian's ears; "Cullen was amazed. He wouldn't believe me when I told him. He said: 'Forgive me, Inquisitor, but four people? I can understand two, but Fareld isn't a master escape artist.' We underestimated him."

"That's how he gets around things," the mage sipped at his drink, comforted by the burn in his throat, the heat in his stomach; "He knows we'll underestimate him, so he uses it to his advantage. I thought we were leaving him with enough people."

"If he wants something enough, he'll go after it."

Dorian nodded. There was a long moment of quiet between them. The pair drank to fill it, occupied with their own thoughts, and none articulated them until Bryce noticed the sky outside.

"No more rain," he said with a smile; "Does that mean…?"

Dorian shook his head, propped up as it was by his hand, the elbow rested on the chair's armrest; "There's more on the way. You can smell it in the air."

"Can you?"

"It's one of the few things I remember learning from merchants," he explained; "Most of them travelled between cities and stayed near the farmlands. Farmers have a nose for the weather. It's necessary for them. And once you realise how they do it, it isn't hard to learn."

Bryce's shoulders slumped, if imperceptibly; "Rain isn't good. Fareld's right. We can't keep our archers from training for much longer. We'll have to set up regimes no matter what the weather's like."

"It's a good idea," Dorian drank once more; "Even Varric knows we can't keep them out of practice. The Templars could come at us at any moment, and without ranged attacks we might as well wave the white flag."

The Inquisitor nodded. He looked at the fireplace and the ash within, and saw beside it a fresh pile of logs. He leaned forward and moved the grate, throwing some of the logs where the ash laid, and looked at Dorian expectantly.

His lover set fire to it, as well as the kindling. Soon, large flames licked at the marble like orange tongues, rendering the candle on the bedside table useless. Yet the heat that radiated from it more than made up for that. The air outside was cold, after all, and the mage had no doubt it would grow colder before the war's end.

"Your mother sent Fareld's outfit for the dinner tomorrow."

Dorian snorted, taking another sip of his drink; "I am not putting my son in that."

"Her letter was very insistent. It's formal," there was a slight smile on Bryce's face, amusement dancing deep within his eyes, piercing green in the firelight; "I'm almost jealous."

"It's too formal. He's not a dress up doll, not even for Mother. Besides, he won't wear it. He'll go in his own clothes and we won't have any power to stop him."

"He doesn't want to go," Bryce thought aloud.

"So let's not give him any more reason to avoid it, shall we?"

In the bed, Fareld stirred. He muttered something – something that sounded vaguely like 'Mother' – before he was asleep again, Legionnaire crawling to lie on his shoulder.

Dorian looked at him, and smiled as he drank. His glass was soon empty, but he shook his head when Bryce offered another, instead to deeply sigh and look into the flames dancing before them.

"Fareld's worried," he said, to which the Inquisitor looked up; "You heard him. He's worried everyone's going to die. That he'll be alone again, just like before."

"Isn't that everyone's worry?" he asked, though not in a way that was condescending or mean. It was more a reminder that they were all in the same boat, whether it be a man, woman, boy or fox; their army knew the risks of fighting, and still they battled on.

The mage nodded; "And if we do die?"

"We won't," he replied, assured despite the odds; "We've been through too much to let some Red Lyrium Templars get the best of us. After the Breach, Corypheus, demons, shades – I think we stand a pretty good chance of fending this off, too."

"And if this 'High' thing turns out to be too powerful?"

Bryce's eyebrow rose; "I'm not used to you being so downhearted, Dorian."

"Forgive me. It's the weather," he said; "and the war. I assure you I'll be back to my wonderful, blithe self in no time."

"There isn't going to be a war on forever, Dorian. Things will be better soon. We know that."

"We do," he agreed; "but the things we know change so often, how can we be sure we really know them? I thought I had no children, but there's Fareld. We think we know the enemy, but there's this 'High' person we haven't met yet."

"Some things are just written in stone. Where there's war, there's peace. We wouldn't know peace without war."

Dorian smiled at him; "The good with the bad?"

"The best with the worst."

The pair looked at each other, and then leaned forward. Their kiss was gentle, meant more as comfort, and for a moment it seemed as if the world had changed; as if together they could conquer the Templars and whoever else came after them. It was a wonderful, fleeting moment, and though soon it ended a feeling of warm affection followed, trundling after it like a child after its mother.

"I just want to see the back of this war," the mage murmured.

"In time, we will. If all else fails, we know the war will end."

Behind them, Fareld dreamed. He saw giant forests before him, clustered so much with trees that no light pierced through their leafy canopy, nor did any pour between the trunks. There was a thick green fog like soup around his legs, which he waded through in search of others.

"Legionnaire?" he called, his voice falling oddly flat in the air; "Solas? Bull? Dorian? Anyone?"

There was no answer. In the back of his mind, he thought he had seen the forest before. Was it the one he often went through when he visited his mother? Was it one of the many he passed when travelling to Ferelden? He was sure not, as he remembered them with rays of light and many creatures, not the trees twisted in agony that laid around him now, gnarled roots bent at the stem as though doubled over.

"Bull? Solas? Dorian?" he tried again, frustrated that his echo was so short; "Is anyone here? Bryce? Hello?"

Then, he saw it. A faint silhouette of a man, wearing a wide-brimmed sunhat and a strange shawl. Cautiously he reached for his bow, but found it wasn't strapped to his back.

"Hello?" he called to the thing; "Are you alright? Do you know where we are?"

The man didn't answer him. Instead, he swayed, his face black and featureless, but Fareld felt watched. He had eyes, he was sure of it.

"I…suppose not. I'll move on."

The boy turned, but as he did the man took a step towards him. He was startled, at first. So startled that he roared off into the forest, stumbling over roots and plants, breath so heavy it was as if he were trying to drink in the fog.

He could hear footsteps behind him, thundering against the floor. For some reason, his pursuer didn't stumble, which spurred him on to run faster and, inevitably, stumble more. There seemed no end to the trees.

_Which way do I go? _He thought to himself: _Why is he chasing me? What did I do? Come on – there must be somewhere!_

It was at that moment that Fareld looked to the side of him, and like some angelic messenger he saw a beam of light. It didn't register that the beam was red. With all the speed that his legs could muster, the boy veered through the trees, changing course as dark leaved bushes whipped at his cheeks, hurrying as he was towards the light and away from his pursuer.

He broke through the tears. The air invaded his lungs in a rush, and choking he fell to the ground, which suddenly transformed from soil to stone. The thick miasma that had hung around him vanished. A smell of burning invaded his nose.

His body quivering and his pursuer forgotten, Fareld looked up.

What he saw caused him to cry out.

It was his beloved Minrathous, lying in ruin. The Chantry was lit aflame, the Magisters' building laid devastated, and the walls were crumbled in places, the golems slain beside them. Around the great countryside he could see an ocean of bodies lying in their own blood, the grass washed crimson in it, and even from the mountain he found himself on he could see spears sticking out from corpses, weapons drawn only to fall beside their owners, soon to rust. The sky was a bloody red; there was no more left, no Templars or people, no animals or creatures, for what had lived had fled, and what had died remained.

"No!" he screamed, as if it were all real; "No!"

Behind him, he could sense a person. His eyes stung with tears. His heart hurt with the loss of his people. He was no longer concerned with his own life – what was there left? If he were to go closer, he was sure to find the Inquisitor and his people among the dead. He was alone. The thought weighed down on him like an anchor, drowning him in emotions far too powerful to control.

The person crouched down beside him, and for a moment he was sure his throat would be cut. But instead, no knife came to his neck, no club to his head, and after what seemed like an age of waiting he looked up to see who had come to his side.

It was Cole.

"What…?" he mumbled, sure that he would be dead too; "Cole? What are you…?"

"It's an awful thing, isn't it?" the man interrupted him, staring at the ruin around them; "Death. Mortals fear it. They hide behind their Divines and Chantries, but they're scared."

Fareld was silent. He still stared at Cole, sensing something closer to the Fade than reality, and realised then that he wasn't in Thedas – he was dreaming. What should have been relief didn't reach him. Instead, he only felt a slight sense of concern, wondering why he would envision something as horrible as the death of all he'd known.

"Don't despair. It's my greatest fear. Despair means no one will fight. You lose your will to live. What we see every day – the people, the places, the traditions – they're all temporary. Life is temporary; even pain."

"What are you talking about?" he murmured.

Cole turned weary eyes to him, lifeless in their way; "Do you know what it feels like to feel everyone's suffering?"

"Do you?" he replied.

"Yes," he murmured; "and it's hard. You hurt each other so much. War and pain is always…always around."

Fareld looked at him with pursed lips, but said nothing. He had heard whispers of Cole's ability from the other men. He had once heard the words 'a spirit of compassion.' Was it true?

"What is this?" he asked.

"A possibility," Cole replied; "I feel your pain, too. When you look at him. I can see it."

"I'm not in pain," said Fareld; "I'm fine. I'd…be better if we weren't…"

He looked out, and realised then that Minrathous had disappeared. Instead, there was a large darkness in its place, a wide expanse of nothing, as if in the brief minutes he had spent speaking Thedas had been wiped out. The only thing that existed was a platform, where now they stood.

Cole spoke in his nervous manner, as if he thought he might say too much, or perhaps too little; "I've felt it, like others. It's not physical. It's not…real. It's something deeper than that. Like a knife wound, but inside."

"You're speaking in riddles."

"Dorian is your father, isn't he? People have those."

Fareld's brow furrowed; "What's the point of all this?"

"But you don't feel as if he is. You speak to him like he's a stranger. Is he?" Cole seemed genuinely interested, and for a moment the boy wondered whether or not spirits could see lies, or if they knew the truth beforehand.

"I – I don't know," he stammered; "He's – he's not…I don't need-"

"You're confused. But hurting, too."

"I'm not hurting!"

Cole looked up; "You keep it at bay. You cry. I felt it, today. You're alone."

"We're born alone," he defended.

"Dorian feels pain too."

Fareld paused. He regarded his companion with suspicious eyes, then asked:

"What do you mean?"

"He hurts, like you do. I think the Herald knows. I think he wants to help. He cares about Dorian – it feels better when he's around."

The boy shook his head; "I don't understand what you're saying. What are you saying?"

"You can stop suffering if you reach out," Cole once more descended into riddles; "There's an arrow, soaring. It pierces something solid. There's a lot of cold. You're not alone, but it feels like you're a hundred miles away. But he's there. You can feel him there, even if you can't see. You can hear him. Follow his voice."

And as Fareld looked up at Cole, not quite jabbering, but not quite murmuring either, he felt a deep fear settle in his stomach, and heard the call of something in the distance.


	27. Pavus Family Seal

It was the night of the banquet, and through the house there was a great clamour of dressing. Fareld watched, bored at the side-lines, as the dining hall became full of people, wearing garbs and garments, emblazonments and crests. Even Bull had deigned to find something; and all present were agreed that the white shirt, black trouser combination suited him well.

"Fareld, will you at least try on your outfit?" Vivienne asked as she passed, wearing some flowing crimson dress that complimented her dark complexion. She eyed his own outfit – his normal clothes, now clean – and made no attempt to hide her dislike of it.

"It's a banquet, not a fashion show," he replied; "I'll wear what I'm comfortable in."

"It's a formal dinner. You should wear something respectable."

"I want to be respected for my actions. My clothes in no way reflect those."

"At least make an _effort_," she implored.

"I'm going, aren't I?"

Behind the woman, Bull appeared. There was a slight discomfort in the way he held himself, unused to the formality of a Tevinter banquet, and for a moment he envied the child. Had he not decided to avoid the conflict, he too would have been in Fareld's position.

"Hey, kid, come here," he said, and the boy took it as an opportunity to escape; "Dorian wants to see you."

He nodded, muttering to him as he passed a low but grateful; "Thank you."

The Qunari offered a smile to Vivienne, but she saw straight through him. She was a beautiful woman, he acknowledged, but there was something too cold about her; something that repelled him from forming too close a bond.

"He isn't going to show us in a good light if he wears that," she chastised. To her, fashion was not only a sign of good taste, but also of power and wealth. If one wore a sparkling gown and another a tattered dress, who was mostly likely to be taken notice of?

Iron Bull waved his hand; "Leave the kid alone. He's not hurting anyone."

Fareld approached his father as the mage was busy straightening his shirt. It was a strange red one, with golden buttons and matching shoulder pads, themselves adorned with little tassels. His trousers were a simple black, and as Bryce appeared from upstairs, the boy realised both men were wearing the same suit.

"Are you completely sure you won't wear your outfit?" the mage asked as he approached, not looking away from the mirror.

"One hundred percent."

"And you insist on bringing Legionnaire?"

The fox's sharp face appeared from Fareld's bag, and the boy replied; "He's part of the team."

Dorian let loose a little smile. There were no words that would convince Fareld, no amount of bribes or coaxing that would change his mind; he was as steadfast in his decision as he was with his bow.

"At least brush your hair," the Inquisitor passed them and caught Fareld's arm, to which the boy let out a whine of protest, but went along with him; "It's everywhere."

"It's hair. This is pointless. Vivienne would be pleased," he grumbled as it was brushed down by a fine-tooth comb. Bryce was gentle, but he found so many knots hidden deep at the roots that he had to take his time, and from behind the mirror Fareld watched the dinner preparations.

Vivienne had put a strange, high white collar on her neck, and beside her Bull went as far to check his horns in a little compact mirror handed to him by Josephine. Josephine herself wore colourful clothes; a dress that seemed to have many layers, a petticoat that looked grand, and jewellery the boy wasn't sure she brought with her. Cullen wore his armour and proud crests – a sign of his valour in battle, perhaps, or a lack of formalwear. Cassandra and Blackwall mimicked his style.

Varric wore a special gold earring and Orlesian shirt, specially made for his short stature. Leliana had donned a certain hood that seemed stitched from gold, though a hood it was and it remained, as if telling all of her position as a bard. Cole had been given a different hat to wear and had replaced his rough shawl with a silk one, yet other than that his clothes were much the same. Sera had only wrapped a golden belt around her outfit. Solas wore a wonderful blue robe that made him look oddly serpentine, for all elves were lithe and tall, but it suited him well. All in all, in Fareld's eyes, the Inquisition was smartly dressed and ready to show decorum.

Once Bryce was satisfied with his work, the group set off. They had opted to walk, for the Pavus family were holding their meal in a second household, not in Qarinus, and in his agitation at being kept inside Fareld had insisted on it. A mismatched band they were, but together they made their way through the built-up streets of noblemen, where the houses stood on strong foundations and were made of white stone, marble and brick, until they reached the grand front garden that rested in front of Magister Halward's 'business home.'

"Wow," Varric said when he saw it, accompanied by Bull's low whistle. Dorian looked away from them, embarrassed, almost, by their reaction.

"This is a _second home?_" Cullen exclaimed.

"It's not that big," the mage defended.

The house was huge, encompassing a smaller house that functioned as servants' quarters, a shed, a stable, and even a greenhouse. The back garden was marked off by high walls, themselves grand with marble pillars and large iron gates, and it even had a wide, quarter-mile stone path that led to the black front door. The house itself was made of brick and mortar, but had been painted white to mimic the popular white stone look, and so there were columns to hold the front porch up, large arched windows looking down at them, and a collection of doormen and servants waiting at the very end of the path.

The Inquisitor nodded them forward; "Let's go."

Their band was greeted with enthusiasm by the servants – called by Dorian 'Slaves treated well' – and led inside, through a hallway that oozed grandeur. The walls were a pale blue and white, with little tables that held expensive glass and crystal ornaments, some only put there for the banquet. The servants were well-dressed; if not for their polite smiles at them, Fareld would have thought they were guests.

"Just through here, Herald," one man said, his fair blond hair swept back and combed as he led them to two large doors, each with a golden door handle; "Master Halward and Lady Aelia are expecting you."

The doors were opened, and in the sheer enormity of the hall Fareld found himself feeling rather small.

It was a room with golden wallpaper and many mirrors, all of which were too high to see their faces in, but which provided some space between the many portraits of deceased ancestors. Grim faces of the Pavus family stared down at the flurry of dresses, suits, shirts, robes and more, and even as he was hurried along by his father and the group, Fareld saw the door that would lead to the dining hall, large and grand and arching up almost to the ceilings. There were great chandeliers that hung down over them, filled as they were with candles: The boy wondered for a while how they were held up, before he caught sight of strong golden chains that ran along the ceiling through small metal hoops, to controls that were hidden out of sight.

The Inquisition was greeted with tremendous exaltation. Bryce was soon crowded by dignitaries and the like, and to defend him from his own kind Dorian stood at his side, directing away questions. Bull, Solas and Varric were cornered by a horde of women – simple women, he heard Vivienne mock – and Cassandra, Blackwall and Cullen were quickly embroiled in talks amongst their own kind, mostly young Altus men who sought their glory in war. Soon enough, Fareld found himself entirely alone, as the others either discovered people with their mind-set or were caught by adoring fans.

The boy glanced left and right. In the forest of giants around him, there seemed to be no one he knew. Then, by a miracle, he caught sight of Gnaeus lingering with a drink in hand; he hadn't expected the blacksmith to be there, so soon after joining the Inquisition.

"Gnaeus!" he called, and the man looked up. He waved him over with a smile.

"Fareld! I thought you might be here," he said as the boy approached. Fareld saw that he'd shaved his bear, revealing a small, neat mouth and a tidy nose. His hair had been combed for the occasion and the wilder parts shaved off, so now he seemed more like a man than he did a bear, which the boy often compared him to. His bright eyes were dulled after a day of heavy work. His voice, though; that stayed the same. He still spoke with a working class accent, no matter how Tevinter it was.

"How was the first day?" he asked with a wide smile, glad to find a friend amongst the dozens of faces; "I heard Cullen gave you a big order."

"Not too big. It'll take me about five days of work, but I should have the armour shaped up, fit to go. Here," he noticed a snout protrude from Fareld's bag; "What's this?"

The boy smiled and produced Legionnaire, who went rigid in surprise. After a moment of peering and asserting his safety, the fox relaxed.

"This is my fox, Legionnaire. He's part of the team."

Gnaeus took him. The fox must have thought him unthreatening, for he quickly relaxed in the man's strong grip.

He inspected him for a while. Fareld watched, an eyebrow raised, as Gnaeus turned Legionnaire over in his hands a few times. Then, a large grin spread over his face.

"Well, if he's part of the team, he's part of the army too," he announced; "I'll have some armour made up for him. An armoured fox. The first one in all Thedas, eh?"

Fareld's eyes lit up; "I think he'd look great."

Legionnaire was handed back over to him and, nosing at the boy's face, he licked the underside of his jaw. Bright eyes looked up at him, sharp and astute, before Fareld got the hint and let him crawl back inside his bag.

"Never heard of a tame fox before. Snow fox, too. That's rare to see so far from the mountains."

"I found him in New Haven. He's like me. He doesn't have a mother anymore, so I take care of him," the boy's voice turned a shade melancholy, though he didn't lose much enthusiasm. He was proud in his care for the fox. He had even taken to giving Legionnaire baths, which both found a tiresome experience due to the pet's tendency to run through mud.

Gnaeus swirled his glass, and Fareld could hear the clink of ice against the sides. The voices around them never rose above normal volume.

"You know she'd be proud of you?" the blacksmith said carefully; "You've done a big thing here, Fareld. You've helped make Minrathous strong again. We've lost cities before – we lost the Free Marches and Nevarra – but I have a feeling we won't lose our capital."

The boy looked away. He said nothing, but when Gnaeus put a comforting hand on his shoulder, he didn't flinch away.

"Things are looking up. After the Templars are gone, we'll have a good army again. We've been lacking one for a few years now, haven't we? People believe in the Herald. They won't ever think to let our frontline get so small again."

"Other cities in the Imperium have good men."

"I'm guessing the Templars aren't just our problem. They'll be busy, same as we are. But Minrathous? We're sound against whatever comes our way."

The boy went to speak – went to agree and speak of the impressive manpower stationed at Qarinus, Carastes and Vyrantium – but then he heard another familiar voice call out to him.

"Fareld!" he turned to see Halward walking through the crowd, dressed in a fine white robe with the Pavus emblems, complete with his family amulet; "There you are. I saw your group come in, but I didn't see you."

"I'm short," was his only answer.

Halward was an attractive man, even in advanced age, with silver hair and a tanned complexion, each movement he made controlled and elegant. As Fareld looked on him, he compared him with Dorian – and found traces of the man were echoed in his son's face and build.

The magister looked at him with a soft smile. It almost unnerved the boy to see it. Gnaeus said a polite hello and made obligatory small talk, before he excused himself and left Fareld to it.

"Come with me, Fareld. Your grandmother's eager to meet you," Halward said.

"But-" the boy glanced around him, but at his height all he could see were legs and dresses. Faces he had to look up to see, and looking over them was impossible.

The magister moved through the crowd, saying polite hellos and laughing, all the while gesturing to his grandson; "Come along, Fareld."

He had no choice but to follow.

The crowd parted with ease, though some took a moment of Halward's time to say hello, or insist they speak soon of important matters. Most regarded Fareld with suspicion. The boy suspected it was due to his clothes, and without a hint of shame he marched through behind Halward, proud of his decision to go against convention.

"Aelia?" Halward called to his wife, who Fareld could not see; "Aelia, I've found him. I can't find Dorian, though."

There was a hurried parting of the crowd, though not so hurried that it was unseemly. The people that circled Fareld dispersed for a moment, and he realised that they had reached the very edge of the room, where some regal-looking chairs were thrust against the walls in case party-goers grew weary.

It was then that he caught his first sight of Aelia Pavus. She was a woman of beauty, matured like fine wine. Her hair was a glossy brown, not unlike Fareld's or Dorian's, and her lips were thin, painted as they were with lipstick. Her skin was tanned though powdered, her eyes a deep blue, and her neck was long and elegant, gliding from her dress' collar like a sword from a sheath. Her earlobes were imperceptibly weighted down by golden earrings, themselves long and encrusted with jewels, while her neck was adorned with the family amulet, identical to Halward's.

She looked at him with such softness in her eyes, it was almost as if she had discovered a long lost artefact of a beloved family member. Aelia saw the boy, with his brown hair and his green eyes, his short height, and saw Dorian in every feature.

"Fareld," she said, in a voice like silk; "I thought we'd never meet."

The boy, embarrassed to be under his grandparents' joint gaze, ducked his head down in a bow.

"Lady Pavus." He greeted.

She crouched down to meet him, graceful as the action was, and met his eyes. There was something soft in her that was so unlike her letters. The fact he was wearing his own clothes didn't seem to bother her, nor did she make a comment about the little face that appeared from his bag, cautious of the beautiful stranger so close to his owner.

Aelia's hand went to his chin and gently lifted it. Fareld found himself immobilised, not by force, but by the stiffness in his own limbs.

"Such a handsome boy," she cooed; "Just like your father was at your age."

Dorian had been effective in defending Bryce, but once the crowd thinned around them he suddenly remembered Fareld. He glanced left and right, yet couldn't see the boy close by, or even flitting through the crowd in search of someone he knew.

"Bryce, can you see Fareld?" he asked his lover.

"No," he said, then; "Wait…yes! He's over there, with Halward."

"What?" Dorian turned to see Halward at the far end of the room, but for the crowd of people could only see Fareld standing, talking to someone at his height. He couldn't see who it was.

He passed quickly by Bryce.

"I'm going over," he said; "You stay here and drum up some support. And whatever you do, don't mention any rumours. You'll never leave."

Dorian hurried through the crowd. A few people recognised him, but he bypassed the formal hellos and made straight towards his son. As he grew closer, he saw a small, manicured hand pass something to Fareld, to which the boy raised his eyebrows and intensely examined.

When he approached, Halward noticed him. The man smiled, it being a little awkward.

"Dorian," he greeted and beside him, the man witnessed his mother rising to her full height, only a few inches shorter than her husband.

Her eyes brightened when she caught sight of her son. She greeted him with gentle enthusiasm, and he remembered in the back of his mind that she had been affection to him, in between social gatherings and planned events.

Dorian stood next to his son, glancing down to see him still inspecting the thing in his hands. He couldn't make out what it was.

"Hello," he said to his parents, uncharacteristically awkward; "It's…good to see you."

"It's good to finally meet this little one," Aelia replied, nodding down to Fareld; "I wasn't sure I'd ever have the honour."

The double meaning was not lost on Dorian. His mother had been eager to have grandchildren, but she had known like Halward that a wife wasn't in her son's plans. Her absence in the blood magic plot hadn't saved her from Dorian's critiques.

"Yes, well, he came as a surprise for all of us."

"I've heard his mother was a Laetan?"

"Yes, she was."

"Is the boy...?"

There was a moment in which Dorian thought not to answer, but instead he said, with an air of reluctance; "Yes - he's a mage."

"He's a handsome boy. Not wearing his suit, I see."

"He decided he was more comfortable in his own clothes. I have very little control over what he does."

Halward raised an eyebrow; "As his father, he should listen to you."

Dorian put his hands on his hips, not defensively, but rather to help ease himself of some of the tension in his shoulders. His end of the conversation was strained, and he could tell that his parents were searching for ways to make it less awkward between them.

"He doesn't," his words were a little vituperative as he addressed his father; "I think it's quite understandable, given the circumstances."

Halward met his gaze, but a slight amount of shame seeped into his eyes, and he understood the subtle message. It was partly his fault that Dorian hadn't learnt of Fareld.

The mage looked down to his son; "What do you have there, Fareld?"

The boy looked up. He opened his mouth to reply, but instead Aelia spoke.

"It's the family amulet," she said, with a proud smile on her face as she made a slight gesture towards it; "We had one sent from Qarinus."

Fareld opened his hand a little to show Dorian. Sure enough, it was the family amulet, and with it the boy seemed not to know what to do, unsure if he wanted to accept it or not, as if it were a weapon he hadn't chosen to wield.

"Ah. That's…lovely," the mage said, knowing as he did the delicate situation between himself and his son.

"It is, isn't it? I never thought I'd pass another one on. It's good to know we have little Fareld here."

There was a moment of silence. The boy looked up at his grandmother, his grandfather and father, feeling small and scrutinised under their gazes, but seeing in Dorian's a sort of soft concern.

Bryce had made his way through the crowd despite Dorian's orders. He appeared beside the man, unknowingly defusing a tense situation, and smiled as he gave his hand a discreet nudge.

"Magister Halward. Lady Aelia," he greeted the elders.

"Oh, Mother," Dorian said; "This is Bryce Trevelyan. He's-"

"Ah, yes: The Herald of Andraste. A proud, noble title," Aelia said with a smile on her face.

"I prefer just Bryce," the man replied with his own smile, his voice respectful of both her status and her relation to his lover.

"We're all indebted to you, not only for what you're doing now, but for what you did with the Breach. We would have all died had you not closed it."

Bryce humbly bent his head downwards, hands clasped together near his waist; "I can't take all the credit. My team helped me through it all. Your son was an integral part in that."

"I'm glad to hear it. We were so worried," her eyes sparked with pride when she looked at Dorian.

For some time the group spoke amicably, though Dorian didn't lose his awkwardness, until Halward's eyes suddenly brightened, remembering something unknown to them.

"Ah, yes!" he said, then looked at Fareld; "Your grandmother and I have someone we'd like you to meet. She's waiting outside on the balcony. Come with me."

Fareld looked up at his father with alarm in his eyes as Halward gently directed him towards the balcony. Dorian reached forward, but it was an action he stopped before he completed it, remembering where he was and that the boy was in no danger.

"Fareld-"

"Let him go," Aelia said with a smile, not quite a command, for her voice was too soft and amused for that; "He'll love little Nephele."

Bryce squeezed Dorian's bicep in comfort; "He'll be alright."

From the other side of the room, standing as he was at least a foot above most people, Bull watched as Halward led Fareld to the balcony's large doors, his arms folded across his chest as he half-listened to the woman in front of him. He was leaning against the wall and at his side was Solas, the elf having somehow found himself with a talkative fan. Varric had since disappeared with a group of them, charming them no doubt with his practiced suaveness.

"Hey," Bull said to his elven companion, and both realised neither woman noticed them talking; "Think we should help Fareld?"

Solas looked over to see what he meant. The boy had been taken through the doors now, and Halward returned without him. There was no cause for concern; the man was his grandfather and even if his intent was malicious, he wouldn't risk harming Fareld at his own party.

"He's fine. There are probably people his own age out there." Solas deduced, arms crossed and copying Bull's lean.

"I'll bet you ten gold he's been left with a girl."

"Ah, yes. Tevinter nobility do like to ensure their child's future early on."

"I can't imagine Dorian's too happy with that," the Qunari glanced up, ignoring the looks he received from the more nervous of Tevinter, and saw Dorian in conversation with his parents and Bryce. The mage kept looking back at the door, as if he were going to hurry towards the first chance he got.

"You know Fareld," Solas said; "If he wants to do something, he will. I can't imagine he'll leap at the chance to fulfil his grandparents' wishes."

Out on the balcony, the air was cold. The sky above was a flurry of stars and purple galaxies, mixing with night's black coat, and his breath came out as white smoke. He leant against a stone banister that overlooked the countryside, and past the mountains he knew the soil became rockier, soon to turn into sheer cliffs and cities built upon stone. It was nothing like the land he'd travelled to reach Ferelden.

Beside him stood Nephele; an Altus girl, who was born of a very strong mage bloodline and whose father owned a great deal of land stretching near Vol Dorma. Her hair was a light brown, her eyes grey, almost blue in the low light, and her voice was high-pitched. She wore a dress with a puffed out skirt, so large that it scraped against Fareld's leg even as he edged away from her.

"I love banquets," she was saying, the boy leaning against the banister with his head lying on his forearms, his back bent; "I heard Father saying it's an important one, to show support for the Inquisition. You're part of it, aren't you?"

"I'm part of the war," he murmured.

"Doesn't that scare you? Even my brother doesn't want to join, and he's at least ten years older than us! He wants to become a merchant until he inherits Father's land. Well, he won't get more than me – no, I'm going to be a better merchant and Father will give me-"

She carried on, but Fareld stopped listening. He looked to the left of him to see the mountains in the distance; the ones he and the others had travelled from, after his hard journey was over. From where he was he could only make out a smattering of the forests that stood around it, but there was something else there that caught his attention.

He saw a red glow near the top.

It was almost unnoticeable, a trick of the light. Fareld rose up from his position, putting a comforting hand to the grumbling Legionnaire, and peered more closely.

There it was again. A faint flicker, like a flame. He saw it near the very summit of the mountain, where the weather was the coldest and the climb at its most difficult. No sane man would have made camp there. And with the Templars so prevalent through them, how could anyone have survived long enough to need shelter?

_It's nothing,_ he told himself when he didn't see it again, the sound of Nephele's droning in the background: _No one's up there. They can't be. It's just your imagination, Fareld._

"—but Mother would never agree to it. She's not the sort who just donates for the sake of donating; there has to be a profit in it. We-"

The door opened behind them. A rectangular peel of light appeared on the balcony and together the children turned, seeing the slightly blackened outline of Dorian in the doorway.

"Come inside," he said, looking more at Fareld than Nephele, though speaking to them both; "It's time for dinner."

They went towards him, but before Fareld slipped past, he mouthed to his father 'Thank you.'


	28. Ironclad

The skies were grey and overcast as the city of tents came to life, and in the distance Dorian saw the first showers of the day.

There was much talk in the camp between the soldiers; rumours, mostly, of nomads making their way towards Minrathous, eager to join the army's ranks and fight for the freedom of Tevinter. The mage heard from Bull that there had been sightings of several small groups making their way towards them, but none had yet arrived at the city gates.

They were gathered in the main tent, where the war plans were kept, to discuss the news. Fareld had insisted he join them, even though he was now permitted to train, and so he stood between his father and Solas, eager to hear more of the rumours.

Cullen stood at one side of the table, flanked by Bryce and Varric. The tent was large, and the table in the middle was filled with documents and files, their strategic plans pinned up on a board beside it. A small bed was provided for the long, hard nights of war, and it was there that Fareld let his pet loose, allowing him to curl up amongst the sheets and listen at will.

"What we've heard is that these men are small pockets of resistance – farmers, mostly," Cullen informed them; "People with no weapons or training. If they even reach the gates, I'll be surprised."

"And if they do?" Solas asked.

"If they do, then we'll have a problem. Our people are stretched thin as it is, and the few we can provide for training aren't experts. Gnaeus and the Quartermaster are already struggling to make enough armour for the men. I worry we won't be able to outfit surplus soldiers."

Fareld protested; "If they have will to fight, give them the means to."

"If only it were that simple," the Herald said to him, his voice gentle and inoffensive; "We haven't got unlimited resources. Armour needs metal, and we have enough to supply our men, but very little extra."

"Gnaeus can provide some, can't he? I can go out and find ore. We can't let one group of men fight and bar the others."

Solas put a soothing hand on Fareld's shoulder. The boy relaxed somewhat, though there was still a damning fire in his eyes, ablaze with imagined injustice.

When he spoke, it was with passion towards his fellow man, and beside him his father felt a flare of pride. Even if he knew that arguing was pointless and debates would lead them nowhere, he admired Fareld's dedication.

"These men have homes, lives, families," he implored; "People out there waiting for them, and perhaps already dead. They're leaving them to come to our aid. They're fighting to protect the Imperium and join hands in our alliance. Who are we to say they can't become soldiers?"

Cullen replied, for he had more knowledge of war; "They can. But we can't provide armour and weapons for them all. Provisions are distributed evenly between the men – and so far, we've been lucky. No one's needed more than we can give. There haven't been any disasters or accidents with our food supply. We have to keep it for as long as possible."

"But-"

"Fareld," Dorian interrupted them, and to his surprise the boy fell silent; "I've heard Gnaeus finished Legionnaire's armour this morning. Why don't you go and see him?"

His son looked up at him for a moment. He thought perhaps he would refuse. But instead, again to his surprise, Fareld nodded, whistling for Legionnaire to follow as he left the tent. There was a definite anger in his movements, but whether or not he felt at all disregarded he kept to himself.

"The kid's annoyed." Varric stated once he was sure Fareld was no longer in earshot.

"He's got an ideal in his head, and he thinks it's achievable," Solas reasoned; "He's a child. A mature child, but a child nonetheless. We don't have infinite resources to supply everyone, and he has to accept that."

The group spoke for a while, fine-tuning their positions and strategies, before the meeting was adjourned. The Herald hurried over to his lover the moment they were outside, and above them, on the canopies, they could hear the constant patter of rain.

Bryce caught Dorian's arm. The mage turned, a smile rising to his face when he realised who it was.

"Hey," the Herald said; "Is everything alright?"

"Yes, of course. Why wouldn't it be?"

"Fareld…"

He trailed off, though his message was received. Around them the soldiers bustled, retrieving orders, laughing amongst themselves as they steeled against the rising menace, and in the muted activity Dorian found himself reluctant to talk about his son.

Bryce was nudged over to one of the tent corners, where it formed a small niche with the tent beside it. There, there was at least some semblance of privacy.

"He's upset, but he'll understand when he sees Gnaeus," said the mage, his hands on his hips and his gaze glancing between Bryce and the floor; "We can't outfit everyone. Some can fight, and others will have to make themselves useful elsewhere."

The Herald regarded him with soft, concerned eyes; "And how do you feel about that?"

"What is there to feel? It's reality."

"That doesn't mean we have to like it."

Dorian shook his head; "I wish there were some way they could all fight, I do – but I also know our magic only goes so far. We have to make the hard decisions, or else…or else, who will?"

The Herald took him in a gentle hug. There were times when they had to face the miserable truth, but he always took it upon himself to cushion the blow, no matter how hard that blow was.

"I saw him with his amulet today," Bryce said, his voice almost drowned by an archer shouting; "He's left it in his room, but he still has it. Isn't that promising?"

"No, not really. I'm not sure he knows what to do with it. He hasn't had a heritage before; it must be confusing to him."

"We should talk to him. See if we can't make out what he's feeling."

"I would love it if it was that simple," Dorian gave a little smile, not defeated, but weary; "Fareld's an enigma. He'll let us know how he's feeling, in time. If not us, Bull and Solas will find out."

"He's come a long way from that boy we met in New Haven."

"Yes. So let's make sure he has the chance to go further."

Fareld sat with Gnaeus, the man having set up base on the very inside of the walls, with the gates beside him. His space was a quaint assortment of counters and anvils, buckets of cool water for weapons, and a makeshift furnace to heat the metal. The canopies that covered it from the rain were on stands, rather than joined with the city of tents. It was almost as if he were operating his only little segment of the war.

Gnaeus' forehead was slick with perspiration, but the moment he caught sight the boy he brightened, signalling him over with an eager hand.

"It's more difficult to make fox armour than I thought," he laughed as Fareld approached, animal in hand; "But, I have it all shaped up for him. Pass him over."

He did as commanded, and Legionnaire gave no resistance. Instead, the fox relaxed, not even letting a little whimper loose as Gnaeus sized up the miniature helmet with his head, slots in the metal for his ears to poke through.

The man closed one eye as he inspected them. Fareld could almost see a thought fleeting through his head, and then Legionnaire's helmet was slipped on, carefully so as to allow the ears to poke through.

The result was a mixture of adorable and remarkable. The helmet had a small bridge that went under Legionnaire's eyes and across his snout, made to keep it from slipping, while the armour was flexible and strong. The fox stretched out in it, making no attempts to slip it off, as Gnaeus went about adorning it with Imperium crests.

"He looks great!" Fareld cheered; "No one will get him now."

The man laughed; "And he'll definitely surprise those Templars. Perhaps we should make an entire army of foxes. We could use them as couriers."

"We wouldn't have a problem with letter interception."

"They're good at hurrying off in the night. Self-sufficient, too. We won't have to worry about giving them anything in the way of food."

Fareld smiled – a wide, bright smile, more childish than anything else, as he imagined such a force. If they could gather and tame enough foxes, at least some of their problems would be over with. In the back of his mind, he made a note to suggest it to Bryce, though he wasn't sure how he would take it.

"You talked to the others about these rumours, then?" Gnaeus asked as he went back to the steel.

"I did," the boy sat on a small block beside him, and noticed then that there were very few people around the blacksmiths' quarters. The soldiers were all at work, he assumed, while he could see the archers lining the wall, practicing for an attack that was sure to come.

"Anything interesting?"

"If they're true and these people reach the gates, we can't do anything for them. They'll either have to go home or stay in the city until it's all over."

Gnaeus gave a reluctant nod; "That makes sense."

"It isn't fair," he said; "We're letting them risk their lives to come here, and then we're going to tell them there's nothing they can do."

"Life isn't fair, Fareld. You know that as well as anyone."

"So we should limit the amount of injustice that happens."

"We don't have the resources. Sure, we've got plenty of metal now, providing that no one breaks their weapons or armour – which some of them are definitely going to do – but if we starting letting any old Tevinter in, we'll quickly run out. Minrathous hasn't had a shipment of food in weeks."

"We're getting some from Qarinus soon. Magister Halward said he's sending word to them."

The blacksmith gave him a quick glance; "You and the magister getting close?"

"No," his words were vehement and quick; "We run into each other. Dorian sometimes speaks to him, and sometimes I'm with Dorian."

"I heard he gave you an amulet during the banquet."

"Lady Aelia gave me an amulet. I'm…not sure what to do with it."

There was a moment of silence between them as Gnaeus realised what that meant. The inflection in Fareld's voice, meek and uncertain, was unusual for him, and to hear it was almost like watching a deer devour a bear.

"Well, there's no need to make quick decisions, eh?" he said, changing his tone from intrigued yet tactful to upbeat; "There's plenty to do to keep your mind off it. The archers need to be whipped up into shape, don't they?"

Fareld smiled, though it was somewhat thin, and made a little noise in the affirmative. Legionnaire at his feet explored his new armour; the fox jumped and barked, rolling with it in what appeared to be exhilaration, and the boy chuckled as he watched his pet play.

"Fareld!"

He turned, only to see Bull emerging from the city of tents.

"What is it?" he asked, jumping up as the Qunari drew closer; "Has something happened? Are we under attack?"

Bull gave him an amused smile; "No – that's an extreme assumption."

"We can never be too careful." Fareld relaxed, if only a little, and behind him Legionnaire came to stand, as if he were an escort.

The Qunari noticed him. His smile became small, pursed, and putting his hands on his hips he gave Fareld an odd look, his eyebrow raised slightly.

"He looks good," the boy defended.

He shook his head in amusement; "Dorian wanted me to get you."

"What does he want?"

"Not sure. He and Bryce were looking for you. Might have something to do with the talk earlier."

His brow furrowed. Fareld said nothing, for he was unsure what to say, and instead peered out behind Bull to see if the men were following. All he could make out was the small crowd of soldiers that often lined the city of tents.

"Fine," he grumbled; "Come on, Legionnaire."

Bull watched as the boy went past him, the fox following eagerly, and with a shake of his head he let out another amused smile.


	29. Farewell to a Good Friend

There was no reason to go beyond the wall; it was the only thing that kept certain death at bay. The archers in all their practice kept them safe, the golems were reinstated, and the city of tents remained as the last defence in case of disaster, with its multitude of soldiers pouring in and out, weapons ready for war.

So when Dorian caught sight of his son leaving through the gates, his alarm was understandable.

Quickly, he abandoned the notes he had been reading – facts about old magical enchantments, staves, and things of that nature – and hurried over to the gate, calling to the ironclad gatekeeper to raise them.

"I'm on strict orders, sir-" he began, but was interrupted.

"I've just seen you let Fareld through," barked Dorian; "Open these gates before I make you wish you had!"

There was a moment of hesitation, and then the young porter turned away from him. From afar he could hear the click of a lever. In seconds, the great iron gate began to rise, the sound of cogs clacking all Dorian could hear, and for those brief moments he felt more impatient than he ever had before.

It cleared the halfway mark, and without patience the mage darted through, hearing the shout of concern from the city of tents behind him. A lone thought was spared for whoever called out to him, but nonetheless, he continued on to the countryside.

Of all those majestic sights of Tevinter Dorian had seen and heard about, he had never truly marvelled the mountains. They were as grand as they oppressive; jagged grey fortress that rose up from the earth, their tips scraping the sky, as though to say they were the kings of the land and no one – man, mage or Qun – would take their place. The forests that surrounded them were their followers, and as loyal subjects they remained, never silent but always still, housing inside themselves a wide variety of life.

It was near those forests that Dorian found his son.

Hurrying over to him, he ignored the imminent danger they were in, disregarding the fact that the Templars could be on them at any moment and they would have to rely on the archers' keen eyes for defence. Fareld was his main concern. Had the boy not been seen, he dreaded to think what might have happened to him.

He saw that his son was searching for something in the bushes that fringed the woods. Fareld's face was the picture of confusion, twisted as it was by worry, and for a moment Dorian wondered what had possessed him to take such a risk. The boy had been at least a little more cautious since the ill-fated babysitting attempt.

"Fareld!" he called, startling the child as he looked up from his searching; "What in Thedas are you doing out here?"

For a moment, it seemed as though the boy was too startled to reply. There was a dusting of red along his cheeks, noticeable to Dorian, though perhaps not to others, and when he replied it was an inaudible mumble. Fareld glanced back to the bushes he had been rifling through, his eyes still roaming for something.

"What was that?"

"Legionnaire," the boy repeated more clearly, turning his gaze back to look at him; "I'm looking for Legionnaire. I can't find him in the city."

Dorian softened somewhat. His pose relaxed, his shoulders slackened, and with a nod of his head he comforted his son.

"That's alright. I can help you look. Do you have any idea where he might have gone to?"

"It could be anywhere. He came out here to hunt sometimes, but he always came back after an hour. It's been two and he's still not home."

The mage saw the anxiety on his son's face, and Fareld kept flicking his eyes from his father to the forest, as if impatient to search. It seemed the Templars had been all but forgotten to him. He was desperate to find his pet, whether or not that meant putting himself in danger.

The trees were many and clustered together, but their leafy canopies allowed for thin rays of light to pour through. Birds squawked, frightened by something unseen to them, and they heard the flurry of wings beating against branches, taking flight. The bushes were about halfway up to Fareld's waist, and so Dorian could see all that lay before them; and in none of it was a fox.

With a sigh, he instructed; "Follow me. And for Maker's sake, Fareld, don't wander off!"

Fareld acquiesced, as if unsure he wanted for his father to help, but somewhere in his mind he realised it would be foolish to make him stay. Together they parted the bushes, Dorian going first as his son crept behind him, perhaps aware now of the danger they were both in.

The first animals they came across were deer. Fareld had a mind to shoot one and take it home, but the mage stopped him – it would only slow them down. In the patches of light they saw squirrels foraging for food, and on mossy tree trunks insects were in abundance, writhing in the coolness that their green shelters provided. There were a few bears further off in the distance roaring their mighty roar, so Dorian steered them away. He wasn't planning to become lunch for one of the many beasts roaming the forest.

"Where _is_ he?" Fareld muttered, his voice a whisper as the birds squawked and fled the branches above.

"I have no idea. Don't fret. We'll find him soon."

But as time wore on, the boy's worry only increased. Soon he abandoned whispering, instead calling out for Legionnaire to show himself, desperation in each cry.

"Legionnaire?" he called out into the distance, ignoring Dorian's urgent shushing; "Legionnaire? Where are you? Legionnaire? Come out!"

There was no answer but an interminable silence. Fareld moved behind his father, who despite his misgivings continued on through the undergrowth, and saw in the thicket suddenly a shadow falling on the bushes beside them.

"Legionnaire!" he said, as he recognised the contorted image of a fox; "He's this way! Come on!"

Dorian had no time to stop him before his son darted to the left. The mage picked up the pace, running at speed, and even though he caught up to stride at Fareld's side he realised the boy was on a mission. There was that determined look in his eyes his father felt so proud of, even though their last steps may have been right at that moment, the last thought in their heads of a fox before an arrow went through them.

They came upon a clearing. The wide, open space was almost unnerving, the trees crowded round the edge as though an audience for something, and the first thing Dorian did was glance around to make sure no one was hiding there.

He turned to face Fareld, intent on taking him home, when he realised the boy's face had gone white. He was staring up behind him, where the shadow was projected, and the mage turned to see what had scared him so.

Hanging by the tail, with an arrow-wound in his head, was Legionnaire. Someone had strung him up on a branch with twine, as though warning others to stay away. Someone had killed him.

A terrible thought crossed Dorian's mind that the Templars were to blame.

"Legionnaire!" Fareld cried; "Legionnaire! No!"

His son bolted towards him, but instead ran into Dorian's side. His legs collapsed. His cries were grief-stricken screams, desperate to wake up, for Legionnaire to rouse him from his terrible nightmare. As he weighed down on his father, it was all Dorian could do to gather him up and make him sit to catch his breath. There, he crouched down in front of him, trying to calm him down.

"Fareld, Fareld," he said, and the boy's only response were sobs; "Fareld, look at me. Please. It's alright. He lived a good life-"

"No!" he screamed, making Dorian fall silent; "He didn't! He was too young! He was my responsibility and now he's gone!"

"Calm down, please. Please don't get so upset. Legionnaire knows you loved him. He's in a better place."

"No he's not! He was supposed to be alive and help us through the war! He was like me! He didn't have a mother, he didn't have a home and no one ever trusted him to do anything! And now he's dead and soon I'll be too and _no one will care_!"

Dorian's eyes widened. Before him Fareld's face fell into his hands, and his sobbing only worsened. His reaction was born more on impulse than thought, for his hands went to his son's shoulders, his face came closer, and with all his innate fatherly affection he said to him:

"What are you talking about?" he breathed gently, lessening Fareld's cries as he muttered into the skin of his forehead; "No one's going to kill you. I won't let them. I'm going to be with you for all of this, me _and_ Bryce, and we won't let anything happen to you."

He whimpered something nonsensical, but which resembled the word 'why?'

"Because we care what happens to you, Fareld. You're my son. I won't let anyone hurt you, I promise."

His sobs grew weaker, though they continued. Dorian, spurred and encouraged, took the boy in his arms and rocked him, as if he could keep at bay the years of hurt and loneliness Fareld had already suffered. The child looked so small, it was easy to forget their past.

The bushes parted beside them. Dorian glanced up, ready to protect, but relaxed when he saw Bryce walk through, his face puzzled.

"What's happened?" he said when he saw Fareld crying. Then, he looked up, and his face paled in the patchy sunlight.

Behind him, the bushes parted once more, this time to reveal Solas, Bull and Varric. The three of them looked bewildered for a moment, first at Fareld, and then at Bryce, but once they looked up they too were stunned into silence.

"Maker preserve us," Solace muttered; "Is that…?"

"Cut him down," the Herald ordered; "Get him down, for Thedas' sake. Fareld…"

The boy only whimpered. His father lifted him from the ground, and to their surprise Fareld's head fell onto his shoulder, his face tucked into Dorian's neck. His arms went around him as though he never wanted to let go.

Bull made to take him, but Fareld made a noise of protest and clung tighter. The Qunari gave them both an odd look, though instead he went to help Solas with the twine.

"Get Legionnaire," Dorian said to them; "We can't let him stay like this."

Varric said; "With all due respect, what are we supposed to do? He's a fox." Beside them, flickering, dappled shadows of Solas and Bull appeared, busying themselves with recovering Legionnaire's body.

Bull was careful to hold Solas up high, which was no easy feat. Together, the pair managed to cut the twine that held him up, and as though handling a baby the elf gently pulled the body towards him, holding it like a precious jewel. He was bewildered at the twinge of grief he felt. It was an animal, but it was as if they had all lost a friend.

Fareld replied, his voice muffled; "A funeral. We have to make a funeral."

"A funeral?" the Herald softly said to him; "What kind?"

"I should have put his armour on. We have to put him in it and give him a soldier's funeral."

"A soldier's funeral?" the dwarf repeated.

"He died because of the Templars. I don't see why he can't be honoured too," Dorian came to his son's defence, and almost as if thanking him, Fareld nuzzled closer to his side.

"We have him," Bull said as the pair approached, Legionnaire in hand; "Let's go. None of us should be out here longer than we have to be."

As a group, they moved through the forest, careful not to give away their positions. The Herald was ever vigilant for enemies, but so too was he vigilant for Dorian and Fareld, both of which were locked in a tight embrace as the boy took comfort from his presence.

Soon, Solas saw fit to pass the animal to his owner, and Fareld took him without protest. Instead, the boy looked down at him with tearful eyes. Legionnaire had been his responsibility. If he couldn't protect a fox, how could he protect Minrathous?

"Come on," Bryce instructed when they saw the end of the forest; "Let's get these two home."

It was Legionnaire's final journey, and in Fareld's arms, he rested.


	30. Homeland

The night came, and in it Dorian somehow managed to lay Fareld down to sleep.

The living room was silent, for no man could speak to one another, grief-stricken as they were at Legionnaire's loss. Soft firelight was thrown out by the hearth, falling on the small, makeshift coffin before it: A simple wooden crate that once held wine, now cushioned with a satin pillow on which to rest their fallen comrade.

Solas, Bull and Varric lent their thoughts not only to the fox, but also to the boy that had loved him. The ceiling echoed with the sound of Bryce's footsteps as the man went to and from his bedroom, either on order or to fetch something for Dorian.

The front door opened. Soon, there came a steady stream of their companions, each one tired after a day's work, yet as they stepped inside the house they realised the grim atmosphere. Cullen was the first to turn his eyes to the living room, where the three men sat on blue divans, silent as the grave.

"What's wrong?" he asked as he approached; "Has something happened? Where's the Inquisitor?"

The others filled the room and took their seats, some near the hearth, others on the divans' spare spaces and armchairs. Their eyes fell on Solas, who out of all of them they trusted to give a clean account of what happened; no exaggerations or withholding of details.

"Legionnaire," he gestured to the coffin, by which Sera sat cross-legged and prone; "He went missing. Fareld left the city to look for him, and he found him dead. Killed and strung up in the forest."

Sera peered into the box. Sure enough, she saw the wound in his head, the dried blood making his fur stiff and crimson, and felt a strange tug at her heart. She had never been close to the fox, but his sharp face had become well-known and familiar to them.

Cassandra's eyes widened, reflecting the dancing firelight in the hearth; "How awful. He was alone when he found him?"

"No – Dorian was with him."

"Who would kill a fox and leave him there?" Leliana asked from where she sat on the armchair in the corner, shrouded by the shadows; "Hunters would take him for his meat and hide."

"Isn't it obvious? It was the Templars. They must've seen Legion with Fareld a few times." Varric said, resolute and firm in his accusation, but not without a sense of weariness.

"You think there might be spies in the city?"

"No," the dwarf said; "I think Fareld spent most of his time on the walls, and Legionnaire was always with him. The Templars have probably been watching them."

Cullen relaxed, if only slightly, yet none of the melancholy left his eyes. He like the others had come to associate the fox with companionship; and like the others he had never thought he would be sad over a fox's death.

"Where is he now?" he asked, referring to Fareld.

"Dorian took the kid upstairs. I'd wager he's fallen asleep by now," Bull said; "He's in pretty bad shape over it."

The group sat in silence for a while. Even Cole, who in times of death often tried to comfort mourners, was stilled by a sad inertia. Vivienne, before very vocal in her disdain for Legionnaire, found it in herself not to make some distasteful comment – she was an educated mage, and could see grief in even the most experienced soldier's eyes.

"What's to be done with the body?" Blackwall asked. All eyes turned to him, blank for a moment, before Solas had a sudden flash of recollection.

"We're to put him in his armour and hold a funeral tomorrow, at first light," he explained; "It's what Fareld wants."

"Why not burn the remains?" Leliana asked.

"He thinks Legionnaire deserves to be honoured as a soldier. It's a little thing, but it means a lot to him." Bull said, arms folded over his chest as he peered at her with his good eye.

"He's a fox," Cassandra pointed out; "Should we honour him the same as a human giving his life to protect others? I'm sure he didn't even realise the danger he was in."

Solas looked at her; "To Fareld, Legionnaire died as a soldier of the Imperium, whether or not we agree with it. We lose nothing by giving him a funeral. In fact, we might even gain Fareld's gratitude."

"It just seems wrong to me to give a fox the same honour we would a fallen soldier."

"You don't have to attend," Bull murmured where he sat, casting his gaze to her; "but don't try to block it, either."

Cullen sighed, for he could see both sides of the argument. True, Legionnaire had died at the hands of the Templars, and so many of their soldiers would do the same. That alone granted him at least an honorary funeral, if not a real one. But what person would see him treated the same as a man, who was conscious of his sacrifice?

Cole, who had been silent, piped up to say; "A thing only has as much value as we give it. You could attend the funeral, but not see it as one. People honour their soldiers how they see fit; and Fareld puts value on Legionnaire's death."

"I agree," Solas concurred; "We can't stop him from doing something that doesn't affect us. We should all attend to show support."

To his surprise, there were no protests, only grunts of compliance. Even Cassandra nodded her assent, as though she saw no reason to argue a point that to her must have had considerable weight.

Once more they fell into quiet, until they heard creaks coming from the stairs. Their heads turned collectively to see Bryce, followed by Dorian, descending together as quietly as they could. Without speaking to one another, they went into the living room.

"How is he?" Varric asked before anyone else could speak.

Dorian looked weary and concerned, but answered; "He's asleep, for now. I doubt he'll stay that way for long."

"It came as a shock, but I'm sure he'll be fine. What we need to do now is discuss how the Templars could be so close, and none of us have seen them."

The Inquisitor's words were met by more grunts, and around them the Inquisition arranged themselves. Both Dorian and Bryce took the divans' armrests as seats, preparing themselves for the most informal war talks they had ever attended.

"The forest gives them a lot of cover. Hardly anyone's left the walls since we arrived," Cullen put in his opinion; "It's not inconceivable that they've just kept well-hidden."

"No one's managed to reach the gates, either. They're probably all killed before they can get too far."

Varric shook his head; "They've obviously managed to see the walls at some point, if they killed Legionnaire and left him as a warning. That means they're either high up in the mountains, or came pretty close to the edge of the forest. The archers would have seen them either way."

"Varric's got a point. How can they be _that_ invisible?" Sera asked; "With all the rumours going on, someone must have come across them at some point, right?"

"Tevinter is a large place. Perhaps they're spread all over?" Dorian suggested to his lover, who for the most part seemed to be absorbing their opinions to formulate his own; "They could hear things, learn things from others – they could even have spies."

"Let's not let ourselves believe that. It will only lead to paranoia and panic." Josephine advised them, in her usual, wise tone. She had much more experience with the public than they did, and once more her skills of diplomacy shined through.

"I think we'd all notice someone under the influence of Red Lyrium," Bull pointed out; "Just like we'd notice a drunk man wandering around the city of tents. They must be getting the news some other way."

There was a creak on the staircase. Their heads turned, bewildered for a moment, but when their eyes fell on Fareld they all mutually softened.

His hair was unkempt, sticking up in places as if he had been tossing in his sleep. His body was tense, and as his eyes swept over them they saw a dulled spirit, almost as if it had left him with Legionnaire's death. He walked towards them without a word, until he stood near to the divans.

"Isn't it obvious?" he asked.

Dorian put his hand towards him; "Fareld-"

"Isn't it obvious?" he repeated; "The Templars aren't watching us by daylight. I should have realised it sooner. I _saw_ them during the banquet."

Solas raised an eyebrow; "Perhaps you should sit down, Fareld."

"I was outside, with Nephele. I was right there, watching this light on the top of the mountain, and I thought it was my imagination. Damn it, if I'd mentioned it sooner, maybe-"

"Nothing you could have done would've saved Legionnaire, kid. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time," Bull assured him, though he could see in the boy's eyes it did nothing for his muted rage.

"What do you remember about the light?" Bryce asked gently.

"It was high up – higher than most could climb, and whoever did would be killed by those Red Lyrium bastards. That's why I thought I didn't really see it. It's too steep and cold up there to make a camp."

Fareld moved unconsciously towards his father, who pulled him in for a hug. There, the boy caught sight of his fox lying in his final bed, and his eyes almost threatened tears.

"They must be setting them up all over the mountains. That's how they see us. I was always out there past dark, and Legion was always with me. I'm surprised they haven't taken a shot at me yet."

"It would alert us to where they are. And they can't guarantee a hit in the dark." suggested Cullen.

Dorian made a silent vow to himself that Fareld would never train at night again.

"So, we have a theory," Bryce said; "and it sounds like it could be true, with the evidence we have. This is the only conclusion I can draw. The Templars are coming, and they're coming soon."

"Training will have to intensify," Leliana informed them; "The men are barely fit for war, and we haven't even begun work with the golems yet."

"I know how to handle the control rods. Leave them to me."

"No, Fareld. We'll need you on the walls, not with the golems," the Inquisitor said, his voice firm so as not to incite protest; "Magister Halward can tell us who knows how to control the golems. We'll have them at a vantage point so they're away from the fighting, but can see what's going on."

Fareld, though annoyed that his offer had been denied, chose to assent, as did the people around him. His eyes once more fell on the box, with the familiar, sleek outline of his pet made orange by the firelight, and with a supressed sob asked:

"Can I…can I take him upstairs?"

The others looked at him.

"I can't sleep without him…"

There were obvious protests in Dorian's mind – it was a body, no longer a pet, and soon Fareld would have to learn to sleep alone – but when he saw the sadness in his son's eyes, he relented.

"Go ahead," he said gently; "but don't take him out of the box. Let him rest in peace."

The boy nodded. With a strange gentleness, as though he would disturb him, he lifted the box and went over to the stairs, where he spared them a passing glance over his shoulder. His face then sunk low over the crate, and obvious tears glinted in the firelight as he ascended to Dorian's room.

They waited until they heard the bedroom door shut above them. Then, with a collective sigh, the group eased themselves.

"It's heart breaking to see him so upset," Josephine said; "He usually keeps his emotions so…close to his chest."

"Give him time. The grief will ease, if not pass completely."

"After his mother, this must feel awful," Solas pointed out, to which Cole agreed, knowing more than the others did of emotions and the differing reactions to it.

"We can't lose sight of things now," Bryce rallied them around him once more; "We have to focus on preserving as much life as we can. Tomorrow, we have to focus on who we can save. There will come a time for morning – but now is not that time."

Once more, though with a note of despondency, the group agreed.


	31. An Interrupted Ceremony

The funeral was attended by the Inquisition's most staunch protectors, and none could feel much else but sorrow for their fallen Legionnaire.

Fareld decorated the manor's garden, having risen late that night, until the trees were covered in yellow ribbons, the grass red with rose petals, and the stone benches fixed into the ground adorned with sheets and Imperium emblazonments. Somewhere in his preparations he had had the sense to put the coffin on a birds' table, so that was where Legionnaire now laid – the first of many fallen soldiers, and the only one, Bryce feared, whose face would be familiar to them.

The group gathered at the end of the garden, for first light would soon be upon them. There they watched as Fareld went about the final touches, adorning the bird stand with what few ribbons he had left, because to him Legionnaire deserved a truly beautiful send-off.

"Should we help him?" Cullen asked Bryce, casting sorrowful glances at the boy, whose eyes were dull and lifeless like the grey skies above.

The Inquisitor shook his head, however much it pained him to do so; "No. Leave him be. He won't like us intruding."

Fareld paid them no heed. He was aware only of the passage of time, for soon dawn would come, and he was determined to meet it prepared.

"I'm worried about him," Dorian admitted to his lover as together they watched him work; "If he gets reckless because of this-"

"He won't, Dorian. If anything, this should make him more cautious."

The mage nodded, though he was unconvinced. He knew the sting of anguish, and with his son faced with so much – he who had never learnt how to deal with grief – he wondered if Legionnaire's death was the tipping point into madness.

Fareld's head turned from his work to the skyline. He saw in the grey the vaguest suggestion of colour, and with a weary sigh called to them:

"Dawn's coming. We have to start now."

The group went to the box, where they saw Legionnaire dressed in his armour, lying down as though asleep. Fareld had been careful not to crush his ears, for to him the fox could still feel pain, and Dorian wagered that the boy hadn't yet come to terms that he was no longer with them. To Fareld's mind Legion was in a deep sleep, never to awake again, but if his body were to be roughly treated he would feel it a thousand times over.

They gathered as mourners do, with their heads bent down in respect of the dead, and close together so as to stave off the cold. The day was chilly enough. There was a slight breeze, though not too strong, that seeped down to their very bones, freezing them as the frost freezes grass in the early morning. The smell of rain was sharp in the air. A storm would soon bear down on them, as was evident in the dark clouds that lingered on the horizon, laying in wait.

Fareld waited until they had all assembled in a circle around the box. Surprisingly, even Vivienne was in attendance, and perhaps even more so Cassandra. None had dressed in black. Instead, they wore their weapons and armour, for after the funeral they were to go to the city of tents and resume the war effort.

Dorian stood beside his son as his eyes gazed down at Legionnaire's body. The satin pillow was to be burnt with him. Amongst other things he realised Fareld had put down a small cluster of berries, grapes and elfroot; the boy reasoned he would need them all in the Fade, should he be forced to wander.

Once all were ready, he began.

"Legionnaire was my friend," Fareld said in a voice choked and wavering; "He was the only one who knew what it was like to be small. No one took us seriously. No one wanted to take us seriously."

There was a protest in Bryce's throat which died immediately. The time for rebuttal would come, but later. For now, he remained silent, obediently standing between Dorian and Varric as they all looked at the makeshift coffin.

"They say…they say-" the boy cut himself off. Tears threatened his eyes and his throat was thick with tears. Beside him, his father clasped his shoulders, assuring him that all was well and if he needed, he could take a moment to gather himself.

Solas looked at the child with doleful eyes, for he could understand. Perhaps he had never felt such an affinity with the fox – oftentimes he wondered why they had decided to keep him – but he knew now that Fareld's connection with him went far deeper than ownership. Theirs was a brotherhood. Theirs was a friendship he would forever remember, however short it was.

Once he had regained composure, Fareld continued.

"They say we should judge a man by how he treats those weaker than him. But Legionnaire wasn't weaker than me. Sometimes, he was stronger. He gave me the strength to go on, even when my thoughts were at their bleakest. When I cried, he was there to comfort me. When I was angry, he was always calm. Maybe he couldn't understand emotions, or maybe he could, but no matter what I was feeling he always knew what I needed – a friend, and a friend he always was."

Fareld put his hand out to the box. Gathering his energy, for he was unused to spells, he said in a strained voice an ancient prayer in Tevene, asking the Maker to take their soldier and guide him to His side, where he was sure to live in peace until the Black City was returned.

The coffin was set aflame, but almost out of control. A spurt of energy erupted out of Fareld's fingertips with such force, the boy had to dig his heels in not to be thrown backwards. The bird table caught fire, and the flame became so high it threatened to catch the trees. A small vein protruded on Fareld's forehead, and with a gasp he relented. Dorian caught him as he stumbled forward, surprised not only that he would attempt the cremation himself, but that he would do so without having first learnt how to control it.

"Easy," he murmured to him; "That's enough."

Fareld made no attempt to say otherwise. Instead, he with the group stood and watched while the coffin became ash, with Solas making sure the fire didn't burn too hot or reached too high. It was the end of Legionnaire's brief time on Thedas, and in the back of his mind the boy vowed he would not be forgotten.

The minutes stretched on endlessly. For a time, Dorian thought perhaps they would be forever stood there, waiting for the coffin to vanish.

Then came that wailing siren through the still air.

It was a strange thing, at first. Fareld's head turned towards the sound, annoyed that it would interrupt their mourning, and with a mind to yell out in protest. But then he realised, with a cold, gripping terror, that it was the battle horn.

Their reaction was swift. The group dispersed and went through the house, until they came out on the streets. Their journey through them was made with haste, no time for carriages and horses, carts or carriers, as their legs could take them faster at the expense of energy. All around them was a great ecstasy of evacuation; people leaving their homes to travel to the Magister building, wherein they were instructed to hide themselves for the coming war. It was a procedure put in place to satisfy the Inquisition, for they wanted to limit civilian exposure.

The city of tents was alive. Soldiers hurried to and fro, going from one tent to the next as they gathered their weapons up.

"What's happening?" Cullen asked the nearest lieutenant, himself busy with commands.

"The Templars have advanced," he explained with a loud and urgent voice, hurrying off into the crowd of soldiers; "They're all around us!"

Fareld equipped his bow, and yet before he could disappear into the fray and join his fellow archers, he was stopped by a firm hand on his shoulder.

"Fareld," he looked to heed Dorian's words, seeing in his eyes concern; "You keep yourself safe, won't you?"

"It's a war. I'll do what I have to!" he replied, and was off in the crowd.

"Leave 'im," Varric said as they too began to equip their weapons; "We have more important things to worry about. He'll be fine on the wall."

The group advanced to the gates, where they were pushed through. They were instantly fighting to the frontline, past mages and warriors, Imperium and Inquisition, as before them stood a vast army of Templar knights; more men than they thought would be in the mountains, and themselves surrounded by Qunari.

Fareld climbed the ladder to find himself on the wall with his comrades. All thoughts of Legionnaire were pushed to the back of his mind, and when he caught his first sight of what lay before him, he felt a pang of anguish in his heart.

The entirety of the countryside before them, save their small army of men near the gates, was painted black and red with Templars. Their faces were many and indiscriminate, twisted as they were with their addiction, and between them he saw occasional blue hides that signalled Qunari. Despite himself, he felt pity for them.

The archers took aim, him included. Below, his brothers in arms equipped themselves. There was for a moment a silence as each army faced each other, one to save their home, the other to destroy it. In that stillness the skies opened, and rain fell over the two armies.

Then came a cry from Nirornor, somewhere to the left of him.

"Fire!"


	32. Darkest Dawn

The land that surrounded Minrathous soon erupted in battle, and even as Fareld shot his arrows he was unsure who he aimed at. The ground before him was an indiscriminate mass of people. Soldiers fought, but none had shape, none were known to him; the archers could only fight to hold back those who seeped past the golems, which in their stone might threw up great armfuls of Templars and let them free-fall through the air.

Countless cries he could hear, accompanied as they were by the whistle of a thousand arrows, as one by one the men clashed with their foes and, through want of victory, fought with ruthless disregard. He himself had detached from the idea that their enemies were human. His arrows were many and numerous, and for Legionnaire, for his people, for his city, for his Tevinter, he fired.

The Templars were quick and fearless, brutal in their attacks. Their swords came down frequently, and to him it seemed always came up stained with blood. The rain slicked Fareld's hands as he took aim for a smirking opponent, standing over the body of a crippled soldier.

Bull fought with his own kind, for he was one of the few who could do so. His horns found stomachs, shoulders and backs, but his hands were quick to dispatch them, and whatever grief he felt was pushed back in the clamour of war. He heard the shrieks of men dying, the silence of men dead, and as he was thrown back into the fray he could only hope that one battle would be enough to end them all.

"Bull!" he heard a shout from Solas, who was surrounded by Templars; "Help me!"

The elf had put a barrier around himself, but his ice magic did little more than freeze them where they stood. Even this was temporary. They had formed a circle round him, trapping him from escape, which meant he had to resort to keeping them at bay until he could get help; preferably from a warrior.

"Hold on!" the Qunari battled through the ranks, stomping on the heads of fallen Templars. He reached Solas quickly, and with a great sweep of his arm had knocked all of his opponents to the ground. Their surprise was momentary. Before they could react, however, soldiers were on top of them, and their screams became gargled with blood before they were lost in the din.

"Thank you," Solas breathed; "Have you seen the others?"

Bull hit out at a charging Templar; "No. Dorian and the Herald were over there, but they're not anymore."

The Qunari turned to look at his friend, but with horror realised there was an enemy right behind him. The Templar reared his sword above Solas's head, prepared to strike, a maniac red glint in his blue eyes, and for a moment Bull thought he might witness his death.

A whistle erupted through the noise. A moment later, an arrow soared past Bull's head, and with expert precision found itself lodged in the Templar's eye. He went down with a howl. Solas turned to see him fall and, with his confusion turning into relief, looked upwards to see who had saved him.

Fareld nodded to them, and then turned his aim back to the indiscriminate masses.

"Come on, we have to keep going!" the elf shouted, before he and Bull threw themselves once more into the skirmish.

There was all around Dorian a chaos of weapons, armour and more, and even with his magic he had a few close encounters. The tip of a sword grazed his ear as he swung round, hitting out with a fire that roasted two Templars alive. Their screams were lost to him. Their screams were joined by countless others, countless people who like Dorian had family to lose, but perhaps unlike Dorian had no son in the fray.

"Dorian!" he heard his name called by his lover, who without surrender fought to reach him; "Are you alright?"

The mage turned to see Bryce crowded by three Templars. His reaction was swift. Instantly from his hands there spurted three whips of lightning, and even though his feet threatened to slip with the force of it, he managed to dig his heels into the wet mud and hold his ground. The enemies that surrounded the Herald were no more. Bryce hurried over to him.

"Will you be more careful? I'm not losing you today!" Dorian berated him when he drew near. He was met with a smile.

"I'll do my best," he promised; "Try to keep close to me. We can defend each other."

"What was I doing before?!"

His retort was lost to the noise and together they pushed through. Bryce's sword found the hearts of numerous men, though his stomach churned at the nightmares that would come; those insane eyes, laughing even in death, as swirling around their pupils the Templars had that ethereal red tint. The Red Lyrium was heavy in their veins. If they were to save a few, could they ever beat their addiction to it? That question went around in his head as he cut through the ranks, careful not to harm his own men in the hundreds of enemies.

The golems roared out as they continually threw up those great waves of black and red, their controller unseen yet seeing all. From where Varric stood beneath them, he saw the terrified faces of the Templars careering down to earth, and for a few he took mercy and ended their lives before they fell.

At his height, he was easily engulfed by the battle. He shot a great many in the head, but avoided some by hurrying past them before they realised he was there. Soldiers fell around him, screaming out, crying for the pain, and even though there was nothing he could do his heart went out to them.

He heard Cullen shout to the left of him, and hurried that way.

"You couldn't swing a cat!" the ex-Templar was taunting; "Did your mother teach you those sword tricks?"

Varric found him battling back a great onslaught of enemies, the soldiers around him all dead. With ease he slipped beside the man and, taking aim, helped him dispatch his assailants.

The blond turned to him with a grateful smile; "Good shot, Varric."

"You ain't so bad yourself. Now, help me out here. I could use someone with a sword."

Fareld saw a Templar come far too close to Cassandra near the forest. With lightning reflexes he took aim, and the moment he let his arrow go he saw her beat the man back, only to have his arrow lodge itself in the man's throat. With him distracted, the warrior was quick to end it.

"This is insane!" he heard the archer before him yell, above the din of noise; "How are we supposed to keep our eyes everywhere at once?"

"We don't! Just pray that someone else is looking where you're supposed to!"

Dorian and Bryce continued to fight through, and were soon met with familiar faces; Bull and Solas. The quartet banded together without a word. The mages were quick to put a barrier around them while the others fought against their foes, never tiring, but all the while exhausted. Sweat beaded and dripped down Bryce's forehead. Dorian's nose was scrunched up in a snarl. Solas, despite his reserve, had lost some of his cool and was savagely beating back those who came too close. Bull let out an animalistic roar.

"There's too many!" the Inquisitor shouted; "Fall back, to the gates! We have to protect the gates!"

Solas conjured and threw an ice shard in the direction of a charging Templar; "We can't! That's too much ground to cover. We have to fight our ground!"

"We can't let them reach the wall!"

"Too late!" Bull called to Dorian; "We have to rely on the archers' dead-eye! We can't do anything from here!"

The mage made no further argument. His heart went out to those archers, his prayers to his son, as he fought back with as much strength as he could muster, hoping that the warriors around the gates would protect them with all their might.

Blackwall, Vivienne and Cole had made a small fighting team nearer the walls, but Cole had soon been torn from them. He now hurried along the edges, away from the skirmish, in the hopes to find a familiar face amongst the many strangers.

"Cole!"

He turned to see Varric, together with Cullen, battling back their foes to reach him. His pain was terrible and intense. He felt weak, though not so weak that he couldn't defend himself.

"Come with us!" Cullen called to him, taking his arm; "We have to keep together. Come on!"

Grateful to find a friend, the spirit went with them. The trio made a formidable bunch, and together, with their combined might, they all battled through towards the gates, where there seemed a small insurgence of Templars.

"This is terrible, so terrible," Cole was muttering feverishly as he killed man after man; "How are we to kill so many, and so many more? How much pain is bearable? This is awful, vile, horrible-"

"Keep your eyes on the prize, kid. It's all part of the greater good. Just keep battling through!"

There was a deafening roar that rose above the din of warfare. A few men stopped as they heard it, but the Templars, expecting it as they were, cut these people down, easily passing through them and onwards to the next line. The battle mages were still for a moment, but when they saw these poor fools die they were spurred into action, and the fighting became even more intense.

"What was that?!" Dorian cooked a man's hands, forcing him to drop his hammer.

"I have no ide—Maker's breath!"

The Herald was cut short in his own reply, for from the mountains another roar came, shadowed by a great thundering. Their heads rose up, their eyes widened, as from the mountains there erupted two mighty wings and a fountain of fire, soon followed by a dragon revealing itself from some hidden trove.

Fareld's eyes widened, and he screamed to his comrades; "Dragon! Aim up! Aim up!"

The bows were turned to the sky. The dragon roared down towards them, breathing its fiery breath and turning the trees into torches, while for its ground dwelling foes the rain was treacherously slick. Men surprised by its appearance collapsed to the floor, only to be swarmed by opportunistic Templars. Without the archers to defend them, they had no hope. They were killed with ease.

"A dragon!" Solas shouted; "By Andraste, it's heading to the wall!"

Dorian felt his heart stop. He turned his head to see the dragon soar towards the city, and with its mighty tail it demolished a section of wall. The archers that had stood there vanished with it.

"We have to help them!" he shouted.

"There's no way we can get back there! We have to keep going!"

Despite Bull's declaration, the group at least turned themselves towards the wall, and with each foe they killed they took a step towards it. The rain slanted to the side, almost horizontal, and whipped at their faces like the lashes of a cruel slave-driver.

"A fucking dragon! It's destroying the wall!" Fareld heard Nirornor shout; "Keep your ground! If it's going to take us down, it's going to have a few new holes put in it first!"

The boy took aim. He could see the creature's fierce scales with how close it loomed, and though some part of him screamed to flee, he stood firm. The dragon's eyes loomed out of the pouring rain like torches in the dark, and a well shot arrow from one of the archers stuck its eyelid.

"Nice shot!" he called out, and there was a hoot of acknowledgement; "Keep them coming!"

As he spoke, the dragon let out a terrible roar, soaring out to the edge of the fray only to turn back towards the city. Fareld's blood ran cold as it charged. It was heading towards his section.

Dorian turned his head towards the wall, and cried out at what he saw. The creature had rushed towards the segment Fareld stood, surrounded by his fellow archers, and with one sweep of its mighty tail it decimated it. The mage watched, wide-eyed and almost crazed, as his son went down with the brick and mortar, falling into the fray below.

"Fareld!" he screamed as he fought through the skirmish, now frenzied by panic.

"Dorian!" Bryce turned and hurried after him, dispatching foes as he went; "Wait!"

The others had no choice but to follow.

Fareld had been fortunate enough to slide down with the rocks rather than collapse, and yet when he hit the floor he was repulsed by what cushioned him. He saw the lifeless eyes of the man who stood next to him, dull and inert, as he struggled to his feet and tried to push the horror of all the dead from his mind.

_Dragon! I have to kill that fucking dragon! Damn it, where's higher ground?!_

The boy slew enemies around him with well-aimed arrows, but he was confined to the collapsed wall. He stood on the rocks, hitting out as best he could, though he was desperate to reach the relative safety of where he once stood and fight back with more range.

As he reached back to collect another arrow, Fareld's blood ran cold. There were no more left in his quiver. He saw around him the smirks and grins of madmen, and as the Templars advanced he could only scramble back, careful not to slip into the city and give them more reason to go inside.

"Get back!" he shouted, collapsing to the ground and scrambling on his elbows; "Get back, you bastards!" his words were accompanied by kicks, but so close did the Templars loom that he realised they would be ineffectual, and as a last resort he lifted his hands.

Fareld moved them to the Templars, who came closer still, and channelling all of the rage he could muster, all of his panic and resentment, he screamed:

"I said: _Get. Back!_"

A burst of energy shot from his hands. So intense was it that it almost hurt him, and in a cyclone of fire those men were caught, screaming as they were roasted alive. Their cries were so terrible that Fareld almost recoiled, but in his relief to be alive he scrambled up, trying not to pay heed to their burnt corpses tumbling down the wall.

The crowd before him parted. He saw his father approach him, accompanied on all sides by the Herald, Bull and Solas, and with a relieved smile Dorian cried out his name.

Fareld jumped from his position to the ground. There, the quartet met with him, and in tacit agreement turned towards their advancing foes.

"I don't know how much more we can take," the Inquisitor confessed as they saw the countless hundreds still to fight; "There's just too many!"

"Then we die like soldiers!" Fareld replied; "For Legionnaire!"

Solas, Dorian and Fareld all held up their hands, with the elf using ice, the man lightning, and the boy fire. Beside them, Bull and Bryce brandished their weapons.

"For the Imperium!" Fareld shouted.

"For the Inquisition!" the others cried.

They fought with the valour of ancient heroes. The mages all struck out with their spells, though Fareld's were chaotic and unpractised, endangering both the Templars and themselves, and the warriors slaughtered those who came too near. All around them were the cries of dying soldiers, wounded soldiers, live soldiers and more, yet there ears were filled with their own rushing blood, and the smell of death was overpowering.

Dorian kept at his boy's side, despite the fact his spells could have easily caught him instead. Fareld was dangerous with them, untrained, perhaps, but without his arrows his father refused to make him stop; if it was his last defence, to halt him would be to sign his death warrant.

Above them, the dragon roared. All eyes were turned upwards, fearing the worst, when by a sudden miracle its great wings flapped and turned, and the beast began to fly towards the mountain. Bryce thought that it might be fooling them, but suddenly the Templars themselves followed suit – the ones that had advanced on them turned back, fighting through the ranks, in an effort to follow the creature back to its abode.

"Is the dragon…are they obeying the dragon?!" the elf asked, a hint of incredulity in his voice; "Why are they retreating?"

Bull kept his assaults up on those that were close to him; "Take it at face value and kill the ones near you!"

Their last attacks were bloody and efficient. The Templars not quick enough to retreat were slaughtered, and none were spared mercy.

Varric, Cullen and Cole found the stream of foes flood around them, and though they hit out they were surprised to find none fought back. With ease they killed those closest to them, but so quick were they to flee that the trio could hardly land a hit on the ones a little further away.

"What's going on?" Cole asked, those dark moons around his eyes somehow darker; "Why are they running?"

Cullen said; "There's no time to speculate. Kill now, ask questions later!"

But soon, the Templars had all but escaped into the forest, with only a few hundred left hurrying towards it. Those archers still standing took shots at them, killing a couple, yet with them so far and moving so furiously it was difficult to make a clear shot.

In the aftermath, with dead bodies from all sides littered before them, torrential rain still pouring, the Inquisition watched in quiet confusion as their foes fled from the fray. Weapons were slowly lowered as they realised the retreat.

"Retreat!" Nirornor's triumphant cry rang over the land; "They're retreating!"

It was met by a slow cheer, which gradually grew louder and louder, until all those left standing where involved. A great clamour was all abound as the din of war was replaced by the din of victory, and Fareld threw himself at the others, hugging them in a careless joy.

"We did it!" he cried; "We beat them back!"

But in their celebration, the archers failed to see the lone Templar that turned. With a crossbow, he took aim, and with a smirk on his face a whistle rang through the land, the arrow soaring through the air at break-neck speed.

Fareld leapt from Bryce's arms. Dorian looked down at him, hands on his hips, as a warm smile danced on his face, and an even warmer feeling blossomed on his chest.

Just as the boy's own smile seemed brighter than ever, disaster struck.

The moment went in slow motion. First, Fareld jolted forwards, and the arms that had been at his sides were splayed out. Blood spurted from his stomach mere seconds before the arrow head erupted through, and he fell to his knees with a queer convulsion. His hands went to clasp at the arrow. He looked up at them. In his eyes there resided a muted panic, as though he was uncertain what he was holding, couldn't fathom what had happened.

"No!" Dorian screamed as he fell to his knees.

"Fareld!" Bryce cried too, and then to the people at large; "Get a healer, damn it! For Maker's sake, get a damn healer!"

"You're okay – you'll be fine," Dorian's arms went around the boy, muttering feverish assurances as he slowly brought him to lie in his lap, cradling him as Fareld's wide eyes looked into his own.

"C-cold," the boy stammered, and he could see a pool of blood at the back of his throat; "So c-cold…"

Fareld's hands made vague grabs at the arrow, but he seemed almost confused by it. Bull and Solas too collapsed to their knees, with the elf quick to apply what little healing magic he had, and the Qunari staring dumbly at the scene. In all of their hearts was a dull panic, if ever there were such a thing.

The boy looked up at his father. Once more, his lips made a shape, and he choked out:

"D-D-D-"

Dorian heard the healers approaching, and yet all around burned the spoils of war; his city, and his son.


	33. Dear Nightmare

The healers did what they could. Fareld was transported to a small tower near the Magister's building, and there he was put in a room that was awash with dying sunlight. On a small bed he laid, still and lifeless, his skin pale against emerald sheets as his father sat on a chair beside him.

Halward had been sent for, and despite not wanting to be disturbed Dorian hadn't found it in himself to protest. He was sure with his father would come his mother too. The pair loathed each other, but their solidarity in dark times had been one of the few reasons he respected them.

Fareld had hardly stirred when he was taken to his room. His protests were limited to displeased murmurs, though even they had stopped when he lost consciousness. Around them were the stone walls of the healers' tower, complete with tapestries of ancient, prophetic shamans and a few sporadic bookshelves, heavy with the ingredients necessary for potions and restorative magic. The bed had a small bedside table whereon Bryce had left his dented helmet, and the window was a gentle arch without glass to the side of them. Dorian had ordered two chairs brought in; one at either side, should his son have woken and found himself alone.

The mage cupped the boy's soft cheek. He leaned forward, until his nose was touching his son's, and with a soft kiss to his forehead he quietly pleaded:

"Be alright, Fareld. Please be alright."

The boy did not stir. His eyes remained closed and lifeless, his lips still, and all about him Dorian could feel an impending sense of loss; as if Fareld's soul had left them and he existed only in the Fade. That dangerous, mystical place was a harsh one to wander alone. The thought of his son there brought tears to his eyes, and the mage pushed it away in an effort to compose himself.

Dorian took the boy's hands in his, and giving them a gentle squeeze let his eyes linger on his face. If it weren't for the fact his shirt had been partially cut, now to show bandages soaked in elfroot water, he could have almost believed Fareld was sleeping.

Bryce appeared in the doorway. There he hovered, his shoulder rested against the frame as he gazed at both his lover and the child. The amber-orange sunlight poured through the window and almost blanketed the room, but it had such an effect as to blacken Dorian's features, making him little more than a glowing outline.

"How is he?" asked the Inquisitor as he stepped into the room. The mage made no attempt to take his eyes from Fareld.

"There's been no change," he informed him; "The healers came in to dress his wounds, but they can do little else. Even their potions have limited effect – more so, without fresh supplies and ingredients coming in."

Bryce went to the bed, where he sat himself down on the empty chair that sat opposite to Dorian. There, he looked at the boy's face. There was a strange twinge in his heart when he realised not even Fareld's eyelids were twitching. Where was that kick that he was so known for? Where were the protests at being laid in bed, even for the good of his health?

The Herald took one of the boy's hands, given to him by Dorian. For a moment the pair sat there, gazing at the gentle face, the still lips, as though if they looked long enough he might awaken and all would be well again.

Soon, the mage sighed.

"This shouldn't have happened. He shouldn't have been there," he said; "What was I thinking, letting him join the war effort? I knew it was dangerous, and I couldn't say no to him."

"You did what you thought was right, Dorian. You let him make a decision by himself, just as he wanted you to."

"And now look!" he proclaimed, gesturing to the boy; "He might _die_! Don't you understand that? My decision to let him do as he pleased might have killed him. This is my son, Bryce!"

The Herald's eyes softened. His hand went to hold the boy's head, fingers touching his hair, and with a kiss to his forehead he said, in a low murmur:

"Mine, too."

Once more, there was a silence. In the back of Dorian's mind, he knew there would soon be enough to keep them occupied, and if not at least distracted. Aelia would come and demand he become a better parent; Halward would stand at the side-lines, silent and contemplating; Cullen would arrive for visits now and then, at least until Fareld's state improved; Cole would perhaps come to comfort them and predict the outcome of the boy's wound; and Solas, Bull and Varric would make a few appearances to be sure he was still with them and nothing had yet changed. There would be many visitors, many deeds to be done, and in all of it there would be those frightful efforts to rebuild the wall, preparing for the Templars' second attack.

"Besides," the Herald said after a while of quiet; "Fareld reminds me too much of you. He won't accept this lying down. Perhaps he's asleep now, and perhaps he'll be asleep for a while, but I have faith he'll come back to us. He has to. We need him here."

If there was a time when Dorian wished he could share the Inquisitor's optimism, it would be then. He saw in Bryce a constant energy, an unstoppable force, and yet there was something so human about him that he never reached the level of their personal, impersonal gods.

"What do we do?" the mage muttered.

Bryce tore his eyes from Fareld to him; "What do you mean?"

"When this is over with. If we survive the war, and if he pulls through. What do we do?"

"What do you want to do?"

There was a softness in his tone that was so inherently Bryce, Dorian was comforted by it. Even if they were faced by an apocalypse, he fancied his lover would never lose his optimism. Had it not been the same when the Breach occurred? When they faced the Rifts and demons, and always came out the victor?

"All on me, then?" he asked, but went on before any response could be made; "After this whole business is dealt with – the Templars and the dragon – I don't want to leave him behind. But, in the same breath, we can't raise him here. Too much talk. Too many formalities to go through."

"So you want to take him back to New Haven?"

"I want him to come back with us; not for us to take him back."

"There's a difference?"

"One implies we forced him into it. The other he does out of his own accord," the mage touched Fareld's hand again, and once more felt a shattering emptiness inside of him, tinged by sorrow; "I don't want to leave him behind, but I'm not naïve. If Fareld chooses to stay and stands by that choice, we'll have no other option but to let him."

Bryce nodded. It was true. Fareld would merely wait until they had their backs turned to escape, should he be forced to do something against his will. He had always said the same thing. He was loyal to Tevinter. That loyalty, however learnt, would be hard to shake if he didn't want to.

Dorian gazed down at his son with a loving affection; "But if he chooses to come with us, what then? How do we raise him? Do _we_ raise him at all?"

"Of course we do. If he decides on that, he'll be our son."

Neither called attention to the significance of that, not only in reference to Fareld, but also to themselves. Their relationship hadn't begun as a serious one, and never had Dorian thought he might contemplate raising a child with the Inquisitor. Necessity had pushed them to that. Their readiness, though, seemed out of the question – they would discover later if they were or not, and he had a strong sense that their bond would stand firm.

"But can we even raise a child who's so grown up already?" asked he; "Fareld knows how to use a bow, he's experienced death first-hand, he fends for himself for the most part-"

"And he wants to learn to play the lute." Bryce interrupted.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"He still wants to learn, and there's still a lot for him to learn," the Herald replied; "Without guidance, without us, how is he supposed to find the time to? If he's working to keep himself alive, when will he relax? He'll have no childhood, and that's what we'll give him. At least, where he allows us to."

Dorian's mouth stretched in a smile. He let one hand free to hold Bryce's, and with a soft squeeze the Herald reassured him, smiling with his encouraging resolve.

"There's more than one way to skin a nug. Fareld will understand one day that we aren't here to hamper him."

"Will he? I don't share your optimism."

He laughed; "Of course he will. He's young yet. Look at what he's already overcome. He and Bull are fast friends, and he hated Bull when they first met. He trusts us enough to attend a funeral for someone he loved, even if it was a fox. He wanted you there when Legion died."

"He was very insistent on that," Dorian noted.

"And if there was ever a more stubborn, insubordinate child on Thedas, they'd be yours, Dorian."

"Please," he snorted playfully; "You call it stubborn, I call it strong-willed."

"He's a maverick here, like you were. He doesn't belong in Tevinter. He doesn't belong with your parents or the care home, and I can't see him married soon, either."

The light outside gave way to a purple-black sky, and the amber-orange that was once so prevalent dissipated. Dorian and Bryce were left in relative darkness, but so determined were they not to leave the boy, neither made note of it.

Fareld was still unmoving. There was no more indication that he was alive other than a faint pulse and heartbeat, as well as little breaths.

The Herald gave his lover's hand another soft squeeze. Dorian looked up at him, and saw reflected in his eyes the deepest sense of affection, love and more, directed both at himself and Fareld.

"You'll see," he assured him; "He'll wake up soon, and then we'll have a job of making him go back to sleep. He and Solas will research, Sera will get him into mischief, and Bull and Varric will somehow get caught up in the middle of it all. Cole might lend a hand, too."

"You're writing me a horror story, Bryce."

He laughed a soft, gentle laugh, not harsh and short as it may have been in a tavern or any other setting.

"Perhaps," he agreed; "But he'll be alive. We could even get him a new pet, too."

Dorian raised an eyebrow; "Isn't that a bit too soon?"

"He'll need someone to keep him occupied when it's raining outside."

"A new fox might be hard to find."

"We'll see what happens. We might just have to give him a pet cow."

"Oh, good. And who will be feeding that, then?"

"The land," he blanched slightly; "I hope."

Together, the pair smiled. They had a plan of action should Fareld choose to go with them, and it felt good to have a clear idea of things. Yet all of their plans may have been for naught. There was a chance still that Fareld's death was imminent, and the wait was merely a minor delay to the inevitable. There was also the fact that perhaps he wouldn't go with them, instead letting them leave him behind to protect his homeland, where surely he would miss out on a childhood. These possibilities were known to them, yet still there were no contingency plans; they were too awful to contemplate in their full glory.

"Let's hope he wakes up soon, then," Bryce said after a while's quiet; "He'll be disappointed if he misses the others' visit."


	34. In a Single Breath

Halward and Aelia's arrival was a quiet affair, without their slaves or servants, and without even their carriage. Their discretion was necessary; if they were to call attention to themselves, the eyes of the masses would turn from their own tragedies to the tragedy that had befallen them.

Fareld's room had become full near first light, when the others had come to visit. His father had expected a few, perhaps Bull and Solas, but to see them all there, waking early to come to them, was more moving than he cared to admit.

Their words were comforting and their sentiments sincere, but Dorian was in no mood for talk – he gave that duty to Bryce, who even in hard times could find words to say, and in the worst times found actions were better.

Cole lingered at the child's bedside. In the muted conversations, the forlorn glances, it was he who told Dorian that the boy was with them, but at the same time, a hundred miles away.

The mage gave a half-snort, too weary for much else; "Is he in the Fade, then? Should I expect to lose my son soon?"

"Wherever he is," Cole replied; "He isn't in pain. He feels nothing now. At least, nothing known in this life."

Dorian glanced up at him. In the spirit's eyes he saw no discomfort, could not see much else but a quiet certainty in what he was saying, and so he took his word as truth. After all, if Solas were to tell him the same, the mage would consider it fact from a man who knew the Fade like no other.

"Is he aware of what's happening?" he asked, voice low so the others wouldn't hear. Cole, with his tired eyes and weary features, shook his head in apology.

"That I can't tell you," he admitted; "Even if I knew, I doubt you'd understand the words that come to me. Fareld is here, but he's not at the same time. Perhaps behind glass, or perhaps a reflection; he exists in two realms, and in both, he doesn't."

For Cole to speak in riddles was not a new thing, but never had it irritated Dorian quite so much. Rather than rebuke him for his attempted comfort, though, the mage only thanked him; in their situation, he would take solace where he could find it.

At the side of the room, where the arched window was, Cullen and Bryce spoke to each other in hushed whispers. Their eyes flitted back and forth, between window and boy, and together their morale almost shattered.

"It will be hard to rebuild," the ex-Templar told him; "What few people we could spare have started work, but with the amount of casualties we sustained, not many soldiers can be reallocated."

"Do you think they may attack again soon?"

"It's hard to tell. Perhaps. Or perhaps their side has taken as much damage as ours has."

The Inquisitor wore a little frown when he replied; "I doubt that."

"So do I."

The pair turned. Their eyes once more fell on Fareld, and Cullen folded his arms, leaning against the wall with a heavy sigh.

"What do the healers say?" he asked.

"Without their magic, Fareld wouldn't survive. It's the only thing keeping him alive right now."

"His injuries are that severe?"

"The stomach wound is. The rest are minor cuts and bruises; not even a sprained ankle when the wall came down."

"Do they think he might recover, at least?"

Bryce sighed. He glanced once more out of the window, where he saw the wall and the sections being rebuilt. With but a tilt of his head he caught sight of the fields, blood soaked in the weak sunlight.

"It doesn't look good," he admitted; "They say they'll be surprised if he ever wakes up."

Cullen's lips thinned; "How's Dorian coping?"

"I'm optimistic for us both." the Herald replied, and the insinuation rang clear to his friend.

The ex-Templar stood for a moment, contemplating Fareld and his still limbs, once so full of life. In his heart there was a sharp sadness: His thoughts lingered over the fact that this place might have been his final resting his place, and his last words whatever was said to them as he was brought there.

"First Legionnaire, now the boy," said he, after a while of quiet; "How much innocent blood will be spilt before they're satisfied?"

"I have no idea. The Red Lyrium drives them mad. But Fareld – well, I have faith he won't leave us so easily. We've had too many arguments with him to think there's anything less than a fighter in there."

Cullen nodded, but under his breath he said; "Even fighters fall."

To the other side of the room stood Bull and Solas. Their arms were folded, their eyes trained, and together they thought of the battle's great injustice to them; that someone they had come to care for was now lying immobile, caught in a strange purgatory between life and death.

There were no words passed between them, at least not for a while. The previous night had been full of words. Discussions, debates, arguments and altercations; all of which had led to no clear cut idea of how they meant to move forward. The idea of Fareld's death was too painful to contemplate, and yet as people who had seen death countless times, they had discussed it in subdued voices amongst themselves.

It was in Vivienne's opinion that the boy should be given his last rites and allowed to pass on to the Maker. Cassandra had agreed, however reluctantly, as she believed there was justice for him in it; that 'his pain would end, and he would be reunited with those he'd lost.' Like them, Leliana had thought it a terrible tragedy, but had advocated that Fareld's pain not be drawn out.

Sera had left the conversation by that point, not willing to think of last rites and funerals until the fact became unavoidable.

The most vocal of their challengers was Bull, Solas and Varric, all of whom had achieved a sort of companionship with the child, and if not then at least an understanding. Blackwall despite his reservations had said that he too believed Fareld would live, though he chose not to trouble himself with deep thought.

"Are we fooling ourselves, do you think?" Solas said after a time.

"What do you mean 'fooling ourselves'?"

"By believing he might live. Is that irrational - are we just too afraid to face reality?"

Bull let out a contemplative breath of air, before replying; "I don't know. Probably. Only time will tell."

"I worry this has all been for nothing, and Fareld is going to die in vain."

"Even if he does die," said his companion, resolute and firm; "It won't be in vain. We'll redouble our efforts. We'll fall before Minrathous does. It's what Fareld would want. It's what he told us he would do."

"Did he?"

"Well, he implied it pretty heavily."

Just as Solas was about to reply, a great hush swept through the room. He turned to see the door had opened – how he hadn't heard it, he would never be sure – and with an almost cautious pace Halward and Aelia walked in, their eyes glancing around at those already gathered.

Halward wore his magister's robes, complete with his family amulet and a single gold ring, emblazoned with the Pavus crest. It flashed when it caught the weak sunlight coming from the window. Beside him his wife, who had refrained from painting her lovely face, wore a simple purple dress that covered her arms and legs, her own amulet on proud display along with a white-gold necklace.

"Oh, Maker," she sighed softly when she caught sight of Fareld, and without greeting them she went to clasp his little hand in hers; "It's true. He's…"

Halward looked down at the boy, and a sort of sad affection crawled into his eyes. He turned to the room, and his voice was choked when he said to Bryce and Dorian:

"Come outside. I must discuss something with you."


	35. For all Grief and Sadness Comes

To leave his family at such a dark time was for Bryce no easy feat, but a necessary one.

Halward led him to the hallway, which in the half-light of early morning seemed rather quaint; there were tables left at regular intervals, decorated with glass or crystal ornaments, and the walls encompassed many doors, each one with a prophetic tapestry pinned near it. Chairs were propped against the walls for visiting family members, but so far Bryce had seen none of them, nor had he caught a glimpse of any other sick or injured.

The magister didn't lead him far. There was a flight of stairs near one end of the hallway, where there was a window which let gentle sunlight pool inside, and there he paused.

"This is a terrible day," sighed Halward as he slowly turned to him; "For a life so young to end like this…Is there any justice at all?"

Bryce's brow furrowed; "Dorian and I are keeping optimistic. There's still a chance he may recover."

"Forgive me, Herald, but I do not share your optimism. The healers have told us he would be dead were it not for magic, and that they haven't high hopes he'll ever wake up."

"We have faith he will," Bryce replied, his arms folded and with an edge to his voice; "Is this all we're out here for, Magister? I mean no disrespect, but right now I'd rather be with Dorian."

The silver haired noble nodded, and in it Bryce fancied he saw a sort of defeat. It occurred to him that he may have faced the loss of an adoptive son, but Halward faced the loss of an entire lineage. Dorian would never likely have children again, and with Fareld so close to death, the magister must have seen his proud branch of their heritage come its end.

He was unsure how he felt about Fareld being seen as no more than a link in a chain.

"I wish it were. No, Herald. I'm afraid my business with you is much more serious."

"More serious than this?"

"Urgent, at least. I assume you and my son are together?"

The first time he and Halward had met, he recalled Dorian was just his friend – neither had admitted their feelings for each other. The way he stared at him now, as if telling him he knew all along that those two would become a couple, made Bryce feel as if he were as predictable as a clod of soil.

"Yes," he said some moments later; "We are."

"Then you are as much involved in my grandson as Dorian is."

"Yes; Fareld is my as much son as he is Dorian's."

"Good. I'd hope as much." Halward took a deep breath, as if steeling himself, and then said; "I'm afraid there's much to arrange in the way of funerals. I myself have already commissioned a statue be made for the boy, but his coffin-"

"What?" the Herald interrupted him, mouth open in surprise; "A funeral? Why would we need a funeral?"

"Please, Herald, see reason. Fareld is strong willed, but nothing can save him now. It's only a matter of time before he leaves us and joins the Maker. We need to have plans in place for when that happens, so we can say goodbye to him in peace."

"Fareld isn't dead, Halward! He's still alive in there!"

"Yes, but only because Dorian refuses to see! Look at him; is that grey the colour of a healthy child? Is a person supposed to be so still? Even if he were asleep, I'd expect to see some twitching!"

Bryce saw in his mind the unnaturally still form of Fareld, awash with the early sunlight, flanked at all side by loving friends and family. There was some part in him that agreed with Halward – some tiny, rational part that still existed – but such was his affection for his son, and his anguish should they lose him, he was prepared to deny any argument that said his death was an inevitability.

"I would prefer it if you didn't tell Dorian about the statue," he said through clenched teeth; "He has enough to deal with right now."

"It isn't meant as an insult to him, Herald. It's only to give my grandson the recognition he deserved – both as a marksman, and a boy who shouldn't have died in this war."

"Before Kaeso, you acknowledged he'd never let us exclude him in the battle. Afterwards, you told us we should anyway, even though we all knew he would never accept it. You even told the guard he was moved to another post, and you all thought he was dead!"

There was a flicker of shame that rang over Halward's aged face as he replied; "We did many things that we're ashamed of. Kaeso was good friends with the Archon, and his word was almost law. To go against it…I shiver to think what may have happened."

"And now Fareld's here, and again you're so quick to give up on him. He's _alive_, Halward. He may not be awake, he may not be talking to us, he may not be arguing, but he's still alive."

The passion in Bryce's words was fuelled partly by truth, and partly by sheer desperation. His optimism was by no means infinite, and with each whisper he heard, each doubt that his son would wake, he felt his pool drying long before its time. Who was so cruel as to give them a son and then take him away? Did the Maker have some plan in it, or was it some random mishap out of His control?

Halward waited in silence for a moment as his companion collected himself, then tentatively said:

"The statue will be finished soon. Metal might be hard to come by, but I won't have stone or marble. Fareld deserves better."

The Herald let out a derisive snort, quite unlike him to do so, but he had nothing else to say.

"If you and Dorian won't be included, I'll arrange the funeral myself. Please," he handed him something small, which fit snugly in his palm save the long necklace string; "Lay this across his chest when the time comes. He deserves to die a Pavus, even if he never lived one."

And as he returned to the room, Halward before him, the Herald opened his palm to find the Pavus amulet there, with its proud emblem like the messenger of death.


	36. Complication

Though there were few things that fazed Bull, he was not impenetrable. His nature was that of a patient man, and yet in war he was a savage; a creature bent on victory and dominance, for he was a good soldier, and good soldiers did not admit defeat.

But there were times when both the patient man and the savage met. He and Solas spoke at length, and through the elf he discovered many shared his thirst for vengeance. Yet there were few ways for them to vent their frustration. As the boy still lived, even in a limbo, there was no reason for them to mourn, and without hope few of them knew how to deal with the impending grief.

Bull and Solas, of course, were adamant that Fareld would recover. Their faith was shared by Cole, who oftentimes told them the boy was close – perhaps in a dream, he said, he walked a thousand halls and searched, yet had to find the right door in order to return to Thedas. The analogy left a bitter taste in Bull's mouth. The thought of Fareld, alone and afraid as he wandered, was not one he relished in.

Five days had passed, and there was no sign of change. Dorian kept his vigil and Bryce was often with him, but the few times he wasn't the Herald said their optimism stood firm. Bull noticed there were dark crescent moons under his eyes. His words, once so strong and powerful, seemed to leave his mouth and die in the open air, too weak to survive.

"If you need anything, Inquisitor," the warrior heard Cullen say once as he passed the living room to the stairs; "anything at all, you know you can ask us. Fareld was a great boy. We're all sorry this happened to him."

As he crept his way up to his room, Bull heard the reply; "What we need to focus on now is that wall. Fareld will be fine. Give him a few more days and he'll wake up. Rebuilding is our chief concern."

There he sat that night, in the dim living room with a fire at his elbow and a drink in hand. The comfortable armchair was made silver by the moon, but its influence was minimal; firelight had true dominion. His thoughts were lent to young Fareld, who laid dying in the healer's room, and his parents who stood helplessly by, watching as he faded away.

_Is it our fault?_ He wondered as he drank: _Were we the ones who did this to him? He's a stubborn kid. If we stopped him from fighting, chances are he would've turned up anyway. Ah, Fareld. Of all the dumb things kids do, why is endangering yourself one of them?_

Those questions, he feared, would remain unanswered.

The shadows near the staircase shifted. Bull looked up, and relaxed only when he saw Solas emerge, evidently not asleep. The elf gave him a nod of acknowledgement as he moved to the opposite armchair, where he sat with a heavy sigh.

"Not sleeping?" he asked, lifting the drink to his mouth.

"No," Solas replied; "I thought I might travel the Fade for a while, but something's keeping me up. A feeling."

"A feeling?"

"Yes. As if something's holding me back. It's strange; I've never felt that before."

Bull raised an eyebrow, and with a weary sigh he asked:

"Do you think it might be Fareld?"

He was almost relieved to see Solas shake his head.

"No. He hasn't passed on. Cole's made that quite clear. Whatever it might be, it isn't him. I can only take that as a good sign."

There was silence between them for a while. Both men had suffered acute bouts of insomnia, but there was a difference there. It was as though they were waiting for something. The message, perhaps, that would call them to the healers' tower? Another battle? There were endless possibilities, and yet in Bull's mind he could think of only two.

"Do you think…" Solas began, but trailed off.

Bull looked up at him from the rim of his glass. Intrigued or at least grateful for the distraction, he prompted him to continue.

"Is there weight behind Cole's argument, do you think?" he asked; "Do you think Fareld might be trapped somewhere, unable to come home?"

"Probably. I don't know. You and Cole know more about the Fade than I do."

"I doubt it's even the Fade. At least not a part of the Fade I know. He seems quite adamant, though."

"We can only hope he finds his way back soon." said Bull as he sipped once more. With a glance towards his companion, he asked; "Want some?"

"What is it?"

"Ale."

"Why on Earth are you drinking ale? You strike me as more of a whiskey man."

Bull shrugged, tracing the rim of his glass with his fingertip, vaguely replying; "Sentimental reasons."

There was a moment in which he thought Solas might pry. The elf gazed at him, a question on the tip of his tongue, but instead he relented and accepted the offer. The ale was handed to him, and with a glass he found on the mantelpiece he took a tidy sip.

"I usually hate stimulants," he murmured; "They keep us awake. A Fade traveller's worst nightmare is to be taken out of a dream too early."

Bull nodded. Together they drank, and outside the skies became dark and overcast, forewarning of the coming storms. Somewhere in their minds they cursed it. The archers would have to train in the cold and wet, the workers would be forced to continue, and their soldiers, what few of them remained, would be drowned rats on the training grounds.

The seconds ticked by. Soon, they were minutes. Bull took to counting them in his head, but then images of Fareld's still form came to mind and he abandoned the venture.

"Vivienne thinks we're foolish," Solas broke the silence once more.

His companion looked up. His moonlit expression was that of confusion.

"For having hope," he elaborated; "She believes we're doing nothing but drawing out Fareld's pain."

"She's giving up on him too quickly."

"Cole tried to speak to her, but she won't hear it. She said the most loving thing Dorian can do now is let him go, and hope in the next life they'll be reunited."

"Has she ever lost a child? I'm sure there's more to it than logic," said Bull with an air of weariness; "For all her high breeding, she's got a cold heart. He's a boy. Who chooses to end a boy's life when there might still be a chance…?"

His words died in the air. His thoughts turned then to the remote possibility that Fareld would wake. There were whispers shared between the men that he was soon to die, and when Bull heard those, relayed to him by a grim-faced Gnaeus, he felt as if there were some dark bet out on it.

"You and I care a great deal about Fareld," the elf stated as he set his glass on the floor, leaning forward so that his arms were rested on his knees; "He's grown on us both."

"He's a fighter and he's got a razor sharp tongue. He's one of few people who takes the initiative – and perhaps it doesn't always work out, but he always sees it through."

"There's a lot to admire about him. Halward promised to commemorate all he's done for Tevinter when the statue's moulded."

Bull huffed out a laugh; "Of course he is. Dorian isn't best pleased about that as it is."

"Some customs are strange. Those with money buy statues, those without have garden patches."

"I thought Fareld was Halward's last chance at a heritage," Bull observed; "He's quick to give up on the kid, though, when the going gets tough."

"He made the mistake of hurting Dorian. Perhaps he feels he's making the same one with Fareld?"

The thought was met without rebuttal, and silence was re-established. There were always long intervals of it, Bull noticed, wherever talks of Fareld were concerned.

They sat that way for hours after. Soon sunlight burned through the window, and with it came twittering birds shaking loose the dredges of sleep. Their songs brought some life to the dull eyes of both men; the staircase beside them rattled with the sound of many feet, and after a quick breakfast the Inquisition stood together, relaying their duties.

"I'm to attend an appointment with Lady Pavus," Josephine told them, and when prompted she said; "I know nothing of what she wants, but she asked for me to come with her."

Cullen nodded; "That's best kept, then. With what's happened, I doubt anyone will give her a reason to erupt. I'll be down in the city of tents with the men. Leliana?"

"The taverns," replied she; "I need to follow something up about missing hammers."

Sera revealed she was to be on the walls with the other archers, while Varric had chosen to work at Cullen's side. Vivienne was to help some of the mages practice and Cassandra, as well as Blackwall, was to help on the training grounds. Solas said he was going to research a potion long out of use, with Cole his companion, which left Bull at a loose end.

"Perhaps you can take some supplies to the Herald and Dorian," Cullen suggested, arms folded as weak sunlight filtered through the dining room's mullioned windows.

"They need supplies?"

"Home comforts, mostly. Extra clothes and books. With Fareld the way he is…" he trailed off, instead to say; "We aren't sure how long they might be there. It's best to make them comfortable."

So it was that Bull found himself with a small bag of supplies, walking through the curling stairs of the healers' tower. The room he knew almost from memory; it was a circular room, with a few bookshelves and bedside tables, and chairs placed for visitors. There was little else there aside from a chest to hold their things, and that wasn't native. Bryce had asked for it sometime during their stay.

He knocked at the door. Within, he heard a faint scuffling, and then a weary voice called for him to enter.

He did so. What he saw was the room, dark for the converging clouds overhead, and Dorian in his usual place at Fareld's side. The boy had been moved to lie on his side, for his long period of stillness would mean his muscles would be stiff, should he ever wake up.

"Bull," Dorian greeted, and at the other side of the room he caught sight of Bryce lingering by the window; "Hello."

"I came to drop this off for you."

He handed the bag over to the Herald, who thanked him with a smile.

"Thank you," the mage said, and added as he held his son's hands; "There's been no change. Fareld still hasn't responded to the healers' treatment."

At his own chair, where now he searched the contents of the bag, Bryce added; "There's been talk of ending it."

"What?" gaped Bull; "But that'd-"

"Kill him. Yes, we know."

"It's a suggestion," the Herald glanced between his lover and his friend; "and we haven't acted on it yet."

"We won't," said Dorian as he raised his gaze to meet Bryce's; "He's alive. If we end treatment before he has a chance to recover, he won't stand a chance."

Bull felt as though he had learnt sensitive information, and in the back of his mind he made a note to tell Solas. His heart bled for the boy lying there, suddenly small under the pillows and blankets.

Dorian spoke again, firm and resolute; "We won't be ending treatment, Bull. Not until we know without a shadow of a doubt that he'll die."

"I agree," the Herald turned eyes to Bull; "We aren't going to make any rash decisions. And you can tell that to Halward, next time you seen him."

The Qunari nodded, and with a lingering look on Fareld he wondered how it was such hardship could be endured.


	37. Restless

Cole had felt him, not so far from where he stood.

It was a fleeting thought that had him up that night. The spirit walked the dark halls of the manor, and in them he felt as if he had heard a voice; a little cry, even, asking for help.

"Who is that?" he called in the darkness as he went on; "Is something wrong? Hello?"

There were few routes he could take, and when he took the wrong ones he felt that connection weaken. The voice had called to him – 'Wrong! Come here!' – and he turned, only to find himself drawn forwards to Fareld's room.

"Is there someone here?" asked he when he reached the door, and pushing it open he muttered; "Dorian? Herald? Is that you?"

There was no one, of course. The room was as it ever was, with the bed made up and the boy absent, and no man lingered in the shadows. The bright moon poured in through mullioned windows as Cole glanced about, but silver outlined furniture revealed no person, and no sound came to his ears.

"Cole?" he turned, only to see the dark outline of Bull emerge from the hallway some feet away from him.

"Did you hear that?" he asked as soon as he saw him; "I heard a voice. Did you?"

"What? No. I woke up when I heard you sneaking through the halls. What're you doing in Fareld's room?"

"Someone was in there. I thought it might be Dorian."

Bull moved past him. He opened the door, and in the moonlight his metallic blue skin almost glowed. There was some eerie aspect to him that made him nearly spirit-like, though as he swung his head to and fro, searching for invaders, his movements were more human than spirit.

"There's no one in there, Cole," he concluded as he drew the door shut and looked down at him; "Just the wind, probably. Go back to bed."

The pair turned, but just as they did, the voice came back – 'No! You idiot!'

"There!" Cole pivoted and threw open the door again; "Can you hear that? Someone was here!"

Bull sighed. He had hoped, after days of worry, he might be afforded a decent night's sleep, but it seemed the Maker had other plans for him. He turned once more to follow the spirit, yet found Cole never moved further than a few inches into Fareld's room.

"You're tired," he reasoned; "There's a lot to deal with right now and it's tough. But there's no one in that room, Cole. Fareld is still with the healers. He's been there for two weeks."

There was a certain sadness in his voice when he said it, yet neither Bull nor Cole drew attention to the fact. Fareld had showed no signs of change. The healers had suggested his brain was inactive, and their magic would do little to help if that were the case. Halward, what with his statues and funerals, his amulets and whatever else, reasoned that the boy deserved his last rites as much as the next man; a logic that Dorian denied and ignored, claiming his father would rather the death than the scandal.

"Cole, come on! This isn't right."

"I _heard_ him!" said the spirit; "He's here!"

Bull could not help but sigh when he asked; "Who?"

"Fareld!"

With that, Cole went further, leaving behind him a shocked and silent Bull. Had he heard right?

The warrior followed him. Inside the room he saw the clothes Fareld had left abandoned near the window, and his heart constricted in his chest. He could almost see the boy rise out of bed, throw on whatever was near him and abandon what was left; a quality of disorder that he kept with him, in a world that demanded he be on point and proper.

Not that he ever paid much heed to that.

Cole turned to the window, and then once more – 'There! There! Can you see it?'

He went towards it. The sill had much dust on it, with only the faintest impression of little hands, and he was almost afraid to disturb it as he rested his own where Fareld's had been. Behind him, Bull walked towards where he stood, and the door opened once more as another bleary face appeared, followed by a second.

"What on Thedas are you doing?" murmured Solas, irked and weary.

Beside him, Varric mumbled; "You're waking the whole bloody house up, boys."

Cole shushed them as his eyes roamed the skies above. That night they were clear; the clouds had moved off, but still there was the sharp, metallic smell of rain in the air, rather like blood, warning them that soon their scenic peace would come to an end. In the distance the wall's reconstruction stood as a prominent black fixture near the city of tents, itself lulled to a sort of sleepiness, and yet there were tiny lights still lit down there, dark figures scuttling to and fro.

The pair approached them. It was in Solas's mind to complain more, but as he came closer, he heard a faint voice – 'Look! Look! You're going to miss it!'

Instinctively, he looked up. Just as he did a distant star shone, and suddenly there was a stream of white-gold following some soaring object, momentarily slicing through the sky. It was there for a moment, perhaps twenty seconds, and yet it was enough.

The others were silent. In that instant, their hearts were filled with a great sense of peace. The time for wishing on shooting stars were long past them – they were adults now, shed from the hopeful pastimes of childhood – but there was something comforting in seeing it.

Together, Cole and Solas heard – 'Isn't it pretty?'

"Who is that?" Solas asked the air, turning as though he might catch the speaker; "Who's here?"

"It's Fareld," replied Cole.

"Fareld? The kid's still at the healers' tower," Varric said, an eyebrow raised; "He isn't here, Cole."

"Yes he is. Or, at least, he's somewhere close by."

"What do-"

Another – 'It's pretty, isn't it?'

"Can he hear us?" Solas asked, which silenced his dwarf friend mid-sentence; "Fareld? Can you hear us? Where are you?"

"You hear him too? How?"

"Cole and I have a deeper connection to the Fade. That might be the reason."

"The Fade?" Bull repeated; "But, he's not…does that mean…?"

Cole waved his hand at him, in the first dismissive gesture he had done since they met. There was something nervous about it, but still it served to calm Bull's concern.

"Life and death isn't always clear cut," he explained quietly, as though he might disturb a ghost; "He might be in a grey area right now."

"Fareld? Can you hear us?"

Silence. Then – 'Sleep under shooting stars; you'll never sleep again. They're perfect night-lights.'

"No," Solas murmured, and with a sigh said; "I think this may be just…a memory. Or he's replying to answers we aren't giving him."

"This Fade business hurts my brain," Varric's words were mumbled and confused; "Isn't it enough that we have to see him how he is? Do we have to listen to him, too?"

More – 'Once, Mother showed me a star in the north. She called it 'Son.' It's the brightest star in the sky. You can see it now!'

"It…it seems so," Solas gestured to the door, where the others filed out, and with a muttered goodnight to Fareld he closed it behind him.

Still – 'I'm going to look for more shooting stars. First one to find five wins!'

Out in the darkness, where drunken revellers left taverns and the taverns themselves were loud with music, the healers' towers sat in silence. The rooms, empty now for lack of nobles, were all unoccupied aside from one, and in that one there were gathered Dorian, Aelia, Bryce and Halward. In the bed Fareld laid in deathly stasis, unaware of them.

"This is ridiculous," Dorian said, and his voice was strained, acute despair within every word; "I refuse to believe it. He isn't dying, Father. Mother, look at him. He only has to wake up and he'll recover."

Halward raised his silver haired head; "Dorian, you know this is foolish. Fareld isn't healing, and all you're doing is letting him hang between this world and the next, unable to move on."

"_He isn't dying_!"

"No!" said the nobleman; "He isn't dying. He's dead, my son. The formality of death he has yet to do, but he's dead nonetheless. There's no boy left in there. His spirit, his soul – both are gone. What you have here – what you're so desperately clinging to – is just a husk."

His voice was choked as he replied; "This is my _son_!"

Beside him, Bryce held back tears, and though he denied it his brain could not refuse the logic for long. There had been a long period in which he thought perhaps Fareld would wake, but slowly that hope had waned, and now his mind was open to new options; new, terrible, depressing options.

"Yes," Halward said in a strained voice as beside him, his wife wept; "which is why you must think about him now, Dorian. No man would want to be left between life and death. His wound is too severe. His mind is empty now. In the next life, we will be reunited. In this one, we must let him go."

The Herald reached out to his lover. Dorian felt his hand on his arm, and when he looked he saw tear-filled green eyes staring into his own, neither denying nor supporting Halward's speech.

The mage's heart twisted in his chest. For one mad moment, he considered taking the boy and leaving. Then he felt his own tears threaten to spill to his cheeks, and moving closer to Bryce he was drawn into a hug. His head fell into the man's shoulder, where he let out a strangled little sob.

"Okay," he managed to choke out; "Okay. We have to do this."

"Are you sure?" murmured Bryce through his tears as he held him closer; "We don't have to. We can wait. We can wait until-"

"No, Bryce. We can't do this to him anymore. We have to let him go."

There was resolution in his voice, but it was tinged with despair. In his arms Dorian held back tears, for he refused to cry, not until he was in the safety of his own room where his parents couldn't see.

Halward sent for a healer, and soon one arrived. She was a pretty elf woman, with soft, supple skin and a lithe form, her movements oddly serpentine as she weaved her way towards the bed. Through fair blonde hair she gave them a look of sympathy – a look seen only by Halward and Bryce, for their partners weren't looking – and held her hand over Fareld's face.

Her fingers fluttered, if only a little. Fareld's skin became illuminated by a thin skin of blue, and the whole room was aglow with it as slowly it began to rise towards the healers' hand. The blue moved into a sort of conical shape before it rose and disappeared into her hand, which soon she left floating in the air for a few minutes after the act, and then drew it towards her.

Dorian dared to look up. He saw his son, now without a ward, lying there so still and lifeless, but his chest still rose and fell with each breath he took.

"He's still…?" Bryce began, though he didn't go on.

"We're allowing him to come to his natural death," the healer explained in a gentle voice, her hands now holding each other at the front of her long white robes; "Our magic could slow or speed the process, but this way will be the least painful for him. By now, I doubt he feels anything."

Halward nodded. The healer went to the door, and behind her followed both him and his wife, leaving their son to say his final goodbyes to Fareld.

"Fareld," he murmured as tears tracked down his cheeks, going to lean over him as he held his face in his hands; "Fareld…no…"

The Herald put his arm around his waist as he too let silent tears fall; "We'll stay here with him. Until he…"

Dorian nodded. Together the pair pulled their chairs to his bedside, and leaning forwards they gazed down at Fareld, waiting for him to pass on.

So the night went on, restless and uneasy, as under their watchful gazes Fareld neither woke nor died, and silent shooting stars soared overhead.


	38. Promises

Silence was all abound as gentle dawn-light poured in through the window.

The healers' room was home to no voices, no talk or crying, for both men had fallen asleep. Their bodies were slumped in the chairs that sat beside Fareld's bed, and in slumber they seemed fitful, even restless. Dorian's head was down until his chin laid on his chest, and beside him Bryce was no better, with his own rested on the back of his seat.

It was in this quiet, within which not even a mouse stirred, that Fareld opened his eyes.

For a moment, all was blurry. He blinked, though it made little difference. His brain began to see the convoluted shapes that made up the bookshelves, the window, the chest and more, but it took a while longer to recognise them.

Gentle sunlight, weak for its infancy, caressed his face. He heard outside a faint twitter; a bird he thought he knew, yet no image came to mind. As he felt tears rush to his eyes in an attempt to clear them, Fareld moved his neck, and discovered it stiff from many days of lying rigid in bed.

Beside him, he saw the hazy outline of a man. A small jolt of fear went through his heart and, if he were able to, he fancied he would have leapt up to find his bow. But then the room became clearer, the fog of his vision lifted, and the features of the man's face slowly became known to him.

Dorian could not tell what had roused him. His dreams that night were filled with awful nightmares; long, dark processions leading to a moonlit graveyard; an ebon coffin with golden handles being lowered into a cramped hole; a wreath of flowers wilting under mourners' muffled sentiments; and himself, stood as silent as he could be beside his lover, his friends and parents. Their austere outfits had matched each other as around them Tevinter burned, and yet none had dared look up, none had been aware when the dragon swooped down on them and swept them out of existence with a long, curling breath of flame.

That was one nightmare. Now he had to face another, and unlike the one he had just come from, there was no escaping this.

He turned towards the bed. He expected to see his son, though he could not imagine what state he'd be in. The boy was destined to die; the healers had told them it would not be long, and yet he had held on all through the night, breathing little defiant breaths as beside him his parents waited for that awful moment when he would leave them.

There was a moment, when he first laid eyes on Fareld's own, that he thought he was dreaming. He thought those piercing green orbs were but portals to another part of the Fade, and as cruel demons would they were mocking his loss. The boy was looking at him for a long while as if confused, for no recognition sparked there.

Then, Fareld reached forward.

Dorian met his hand, weak as it was, and held it in his own. His shock kept all other emotions at bay. His son's skin was warm and soft, and deep within his eyes the mage saw a sort of amazement.

"You're here…" he murmured in a hoarse voice.

"Fareld?" replied his father; "You're alive?"

The child nodded. His hand made as though to squeeze, but he had no strength to do so. His back ached and there was a sharp pain in his stomach, which in turn made him remember some distant agony that he felt was not too long in the past.

"Where am I?" his mumbles were quiet, so much so that Dorian strained his ears to hear them; "What happened?"

Still in shock, the mage softly explained to him:

"It was after the battle. You were celebrating, and a Templar cross-bolt went through your stomach."

"I don't remember…"

Dorian stroked his face, and found he neither shied away nor berated him. In fact, Fareld leaned into his hand. There was a softness in his eyes that his father had never seen before, and deeper still a sort of vulnerability, so small did he look amongst those sheets and pillows.

"Bryce shouted for a healer," he went on; "We had you brought here, but by then you were unconscious. There was…we were worried you wouldn't wake up."

"Why?"

"Not many had hope. Your wound was severe. It still is. People much older than you die for less, and we thought…well, Father made arrangements for that eventuality."

Fareld focused for the first time. He saw concern written over his father's face, felt his hand held in Dorian's, and in that instant, surrounded as he was by the unfamiliar stone walls of the healers' room, he felt safe. An odd emotion welled inside of him, and with a murmur he asked:

"Why did you stay?"

Dorian stared at his face. He saw in it no mistrust, no anger, but rather just a boyish confusion; something delicate and naïve, rather than a true question. His hand gave Fareld's a comforting squeeze.

"Because," he said, brushing a strand of hair from Fareld's face; "you're mine, and I love you."

The admission hung heavily in the air. The light outside, though soon to be swallowed by clouds, seemed to strengthen for a moment, and as it poured into the room it gave both the boy and his father an angelic glow.

"I won't leave you again," he went on, with quiet promise in every word; "And I won't let you be lost and lonely. Those days are behind us now. Perhaps it's too soon to say it - perhaps you still hate me or you want me dead - but it doesn't change how I feel. I love you, Fareld. You're my son, and I'm proud that you are."

Fareld looked up at him, wide eyed and contemplating, as if he were afraid to respond.

Then in a small, hoarse voice, he said; "You promise?"

Dorian smiled. He leaned forward and planted a kiss on his forehead.

"I promise."

Beside them in this quiet discussion, there was another stirring.

"Mm?" murmured Bryce as he opened his eyes; "What's—Fareld!"

His lips erupted into a smile, and with a joyous cry he stood, welcoming him back to the land of living. The Herald was quick to sit on the bed; his mood was infectious, for Dorian was soon enthused by his zeal, and even Fareld found the strength to chuckle at them.

"This is a miracle!"

"High praise, from the Herald of Andraste," said Dorian.

"Look!" he replied, gesturing to the boy, who below them only smiled and shuffled to relieve his muscles' stiffness; "Isn't this wonderful? We have to send for the others. They'll want to know he's awake."

"Bull and Solas?" Fareld asked, and was met with a verifying nod.

For a while, the air was filled with enthused remarks and cheers, most of which came from the Herald. He was proud to have kept optimistic; even if his darkest hours meant he questioned himself, Bryce was glad to have known Fareld would pull through, and as he looked down at his delicate face, his small, almost wane smile, he felt a warm bloom blossom in his heart.

Then Dorian asked, tentative though the question was:

"Fareld...what did you see?"

The child fixed him with an inquisitive gaze.

"When you were asleep?" he clarified; "Did anyone come to you? Were there any creatures? Were you in the Fade?"

Fareld thought for a moment. In his mind he could see only snippets, and even they were few and far between. He recalled a certain word said to him in a room he thought had a strange purple glow, though the memory itself only lasted for a second, if that.

"I don't know," he admitted; "I remember one thing – someone said 'here.' I don't know if he was talking to me or someone else."

"Where were you?" Bryce leaned over and retrieved a glass of water from the table, left there some time during the night.

It was handed to Fareld, who took a long drink from it. His reply was less hoarse, though his voice was still thick and underworked.

"A purple room. There was no one inside, or at least I didn't see them."

"Do you think the person meant to hurt you?"

"No," he shook his head; "It's funny – it almost sounded like Cole."

The pair glanced at one another, though they made no comment. Now was not the time to pry too deeply into things. Instead, Dorian stroked his son's face once more, brushing those wild locks away, and with a smile he told him he was glad to see him again.

"It's good to have you back, Fareld," Bryce said.

"It's good to be back," he replied; "When can I have my bow?"


	39. Return of the Brave

The air was all a frenzy as the day of Fareld's return fell upon them. The manor which had long quiet and subdued became a hub of activity, and Cole saw all around him the men and women band together, preparing this thing and that, making reality perfection.

The house had undergone a transformation that to him seemed massive, and yet to others not so. The heavy melancholy that had lingered in the air was no longer; the dining room table was set with fine silverware and silver trim plates; there had been placed Fareld's bow near the living room window, and with it a filled quiver, the arrowheads within new and gleaming; a small section of the garden was cleared in the case that Fareld might like a walk, if so he was able; and together as a team the Inquisition had dressed normally, not wanting to irk the boy's distaste for formality. As Cole saw his friends walk to and fro with faces that bordered on anxious, he found it delightful that Fareld would be welcomed so heartily back.

"Cole," he turned to see Solas, who had emerged from the newly swept living room; "Did you manage to catch that cat?"

"Sera did," was his answer; "She took it out into the street and scared it off."

There was a content smile on Solas' lips; "Good. We have enough to think about today without something prowling around the garden."

Behind them Cullen passed on his way to the stairs, and catching their conversation he turned his head. He wore a smile, though it was marred with anxiety, and every now and then his eyes would flicker to the door and then back to their faces.

"This has been a long time coming," he stated; "I'm sure everything will be fine, what with all the work we've put in."

"Fareld only wants his bow." Cole said, and it was not in a way that was unkind or belittling, but rather a simple statement of fact. It was a trait he had picked up from the boy; he was less likely to choose comfort when the other choice was his bow.

"I'm sure he can stand some company, for how long he's been asleep."

With that, the ex-Templar ascended the stairs and was gone. Solas surmised he had some clothes up there he had yet to put on – his armour was inconvenient in the house, and cumbersome if worn for too long – and he turned to speak with Cole, but found the spirit had too vanished somewhere.

_There must be more to deal with before Fareld arrives. I hope the others are alright. These past eight days have been taxing._

With that thought, the elf went to make himself useful. He discovered Josephine at work on a flower arrangement, and lending a hand he joined her. Their conversation lingered on Dorian, Bryce and the boy – their contact had been limited since Fareld woke up, and in eight days the only sight they had of them was a fleeting visit to collect some more clothes. The pair had looked exhausted. Their troubles now that Fareld was awake were not over; there was still a long recovery period, and in that period he would suffer through a lot of pain. The child hadn't been seen since they heard word of his coming to.

"Let us hope he's not in too much pain," said the beautiful diplomat, with her black hair in a lovely plait and her tanned skin made flawless with makeup; "He's been through so much already. Children should not have to suffer wounds like this."

"It's a terrible time to live in," he agreed; "but I daresay he'll recover soon. There's no likelihood he won't, now that he's through the worst of it."

"I feel guilty in saying that I thought he would die."

"I'm sure in some small part of all of us, we thought the same."

"But you and Bull were so sure he wouldn't. I admired your faith, but I believed it to be foolish. How were you so certain he would live, when all the facts pointed to him dying?"

He shrugged and answered honestly; "I've spoken with him. If you talk to him more, you'll understand."

"I've heard rumours he can spit fire if provoked," she laughed with a gentle smile.

"I'm sure he could, if he had a mind to. His acid tongue will probably go down in history."

Their conversation lapsed into amicable silence and together they worked, adjusting the flowers accordingly. Solas had never understood why flowers needed arrangement. There were people who specialised in it, people who dedicated their entire lives to the art, and he always wondered if they felt peeved that they were bested by a wild flowerbed.

Behind him, from where they stood in the drawing room, he became aware of the others moving to and from different areas of the house, murmuring to each other. A voice reached him that sounded like Varric, reporting that both he and Blackwall had finished the last of the garden work, and that he had seen the 'girls' busy in the upstairs hallways.

Cassandra had been quick to help in the manor's preparation, but Vivienne he noticed was more reluctant. It was in her opinion that still Fareld could succumb to his wound. However, after much cajoling on Leliana's part, the woman had at least lent her hand to some of the less strenuous jobs. The bard herself had been the one to retrieve Fareld's new quiver. The arrows were a present from Gnaeus, who was promised as soon as the boy recovered they would see each other. All in all, it seemed most were eager to have Fareld well again; and he hadn't factored in Bryce and Dorian.

There was a knock at the door. He abandoned his flower arrangements and followed Josephine, gathering near the staircase as the people upstairs filed down, and the people downstairs hurried out of various rooms.

Behind the door, there came a muffled conversation. Solas was elated to hear Fareld's voice.

"Alright, we're here. You can put me down now."

"No," came the reply, unmistakably Bull; "The deal was I carry you inside."

"I'll pay you five gold."

"No chance."

"Ten."

"Nope."

"Twenty and I'll throw in Bryce."

"Hey!"

"It's a sacrifice I'm willing to make," said Fareld to the Herald, though his voice was playful and teasing.

Cullen finally reached the floor, and with a nod to the others went to answer the knock. As he opened the door he gave a bright smile; the sun was out for once, and for now the clouds had not pounced on it.

The man stepped to the side. In walked Dorian, behind him Bryce, and behind them came Bull, who in his arms held the small, wounded Fareld in bridal style, much to the boy's displeasure.

Fareld's eyes widened when he caught sight of them all, and then his brow furrowed. Solas felt as though a great weight had lifted from his shoulders. Somewhere near him stood Cole; the spirit was looking with a small, wan smile on his face, which often seemed to be the height of his emotions.

The child looked pallid and small, but alive. His tanned skin had retained some of its colour, though not much, and from the snippet of conversation they heard the team deduced he'd recovered all of his wit. His eyes were still that piercing green that were so like Bryce's, yet were entirely his own. His hands were held close to his chest in little fists, and to his surprise Solas saw he was wearing black gloves as though he were cold. His head was laid in the crook of Bull's elbow, his cheek rested against the inside of his forearm, as his legs hung over the other arm like some oversized infant's.

"Fareld," the elf said after a while, with a chuckle in his voice; "Welcome back."

"You found your way home to the land of the living, kid," added Varric.

The boy was set down, and immediately he assumed a slight hunch, holding his stomach with his hands. Solas saw a flicker of pain glance across his face. His heart went out to him; it took some courage to still want to recover.

"It wasn't easy," he admitted, and his voice was strained for the aches he put up with; "At least, I think it wasn't. I can't remember much."

Cullen reached out to rest a hand on his head; "Well, we can, and I assure you it wasn't."

Fareld made no attempts to shake off his hand. Instead he stood there as people welcomed him home, with an eyebrow raised and his pale cheeks flushed in embarrassment. In the back of his mind Cole wondered when his natural tan would return – the boy didn't suit fair.

Then, Bryce cleared his throat:

"I think we should sit down and eat."

"That sounds like a good idea," said Dorian beside him, standing together near the dining room archway; "The food at the healers' tower was sub-par at best."

Fareld wrinkled his nose as if in agreement. Though he had been forced to eat it only for eight days, it was enough to make him never want to look at food again. As he followed the others into the dining room, Bull at his side in case he needed to be carried, the boy looked back and forth at familiar ground – and saw his bow in the living room window.

"My bow!" he said, suddenly jubilant; "There it is!"

Leliana flashed him a smile; "You have some new arrows for it, too. A gift from Gnaeus."

"Gnaeus! Is he here?"

"No," she shook her head; "but he wants to see you soon. Let yourself recover more before you do too much."

"I want to see it," he made as though to turn, but Bull stopped him with a great hand on his shoulder. He noticed Fareld had become a little thinner, but pushed that thought aside.

"Eat first, bow later."

"But-"

"Fareld," Bryce called as he took his seat; "Come and sit down. There's some fresh bread here for you."

The boy opened his mouth as if to protest, but acquiesced and went to sit. His seat was beside Bryce and Solas; from where he was he saw that the other side held Leliana, Vivienne, Josephine, Cassandra, Cole and Blackwall, while his had Cullen, Bull, Solas, Dorian, Bryce and Varric. His eyes caught Cole's, and he returned the smile the spirit gave him.

Lunch was simple but filling, and after the meals he'd suffered Fareld found it delicious. He answered some of the questions asked and even went as far to tell them about the purple room, but soon the adults left him to his eating, speaking to one another.

Their conversations were normal at first, until they turned to the war preparations. Fareld's ears pricked up. He listened intently, eager to hear what had been done.

"The wall's coming along nicely," Cullen told Bryce; "The stonework still needs to be done, but with the golems it's going fast. If we don't have any surprise attacks before then, we should have at least three-quarters of it finished before next week."

"That's good news. And the men? How are the training regimes in this weather?"

"No one's complained yet, but in these circumstances not many would. The weather isn't a problem: We train the archers between showers and the soldiers practice rain or shine."

"The mages aren't having problems," Solas said when the Herald turned to him; "If there's too much rain outside, we go to one of the covered areas. There's usually enough room to set up dummies."

Fareld looked up; "If the wall's being repaired, where are the archers training?"

"Along sections that weren't demolished. It's hard and cramped at times, but we have to make compromises."

"And there's been no sight of the Templars?"

"Not the Templars nor their dragon," Cullen confirmed; "We're keeping an eye out on the mountains and surround forests. A few think they've seen fires near the mountaintop, but so far not much else."

"I need to take my bow and practice," he murmured. Dorian almost dropped his fork, and when he looked at his son his eyes were widened in alarm.

"Practice?" he repeated; "I think not, Fareld."

"We need-"

"_You_ need to rest," he was cut off midsentence by Bryce; "You haven't been awake for long and there's not been enough time for your wound to heal. You aren't going to be in this next battle."

He turned to him, eyes ablaze; "I should be! One person's problem isn't important. I can fight – we need the help, after what the dragon did to the archers."

"No, Fareld. After last time, you had an arrow through your stomach and before that, you had to use your magic. Magic that you haven't practiced with or trained. It's dangerous; too dangerous for you to be doing it in a war." Dorian's words were stern and resolute, though with a note of genuine care in them that passed not even Fareld's notice.

The boy looked down at his food. Before he may have lashed out, but this time there was no sign of that. Instead, he implored:

"Magic isn't my only line of defence. If I have enough arrows, I can help. I can!"

Bull leaned over and patted his back; "Relax, kid. We'll see how things go. We might not see the Templars for a few months, if they've taken the same damage we have."

"I doubt that," he mumbled.

"So do I. But it's the best hope we've got."

Fareld grunted, and soon the conversation went back to normal. He was told by Solas that it would be a good idea to practice his magic, if sparingly, so when he had to use it he would be able to. That received another grunt. He was unused to magic and so far, his dealings with it were brief and chaotic. It didn't foster much good will in him for his inborn gift.

Lunch ended. With as much speed as he could manage, careful not to worry his stomach wound, Fareld went to collect his bow, and inspecting his new quiver and arrows he gave a brilliant smile.

The others were watching and some followed him to the garden, where he insisted he wanted test his arrowheads. Solas, Bull, Cole and his parents stood there, quiet observers as he drew back his bowstring, aiming at some small branch in a nearby tree.

Fareld slowly exhaled through his nose. He took aim. He could hear around him birds and cats, the roar of a kitten somewhere far off, and for a moment he could forget that he had ever been a part of a war.

Then his wound started to hurt.

Without warning he wavered, before he had to drop his position and stagger with a groan. The pain was sharp and excruciating. Behind him he heard footsteps hurrying up, and soon his father was crouched beside him, soothing him as he squeezed his eyes shut against the pain.

"It's alright," Dorian said softly.

"I only aimed," he murmured; "Am I not even able to do that anymore?"

"Give it time. Deep breaths. Tevinter wasn't built in a day, and you won't recover in a week. That's all you need to do before you can shoot again."

Bryce approached them and put a steadying hand on Fareld's shoulder. The boy became aware of eyes looking at him, and when he glanced up he saw Solas, Bull and Cole were waiting patiently, no judgement in their gaze. It was a strange thing to be around people and not arouse disapproval.

"Bull," the Herald said; "Will you come and carry Fareld? We need to take him to the living room."

Bull did it without argument. The great Qunari lifted him up and found this time Fareld didn't complain, but rather took the help graciously. He laid pliant in his arms, hands on his stomach, as beside him Dorian took up the bow and quiver, slotting the arrow back inside.

"I shouldn't be stopping…" Fareld murmured, but Bryce hushed him.

"There's more healing to be done. Never mind about it. Give it some more time and I've no doubt you'll be running us haggard again."

Solas laughed; "I give it three days."

Fareld fixed him with a half-amused, half-challenged look.

"I'll do it in two," he replied.


	40. Bygone Days

Though he was confined to the manor, Fareld found work enough to keep him occupied. He and Solas made research notes on extinct potions and ingredients, and when not with Solas he spent his time in quiet reflection.

"Is Fareld alright?" Dorian asked the elf when he saw him; "He's sitting in the garden alone."

"Oh yes, he's fine. He goes there to think now and then. He says the solitude is purifying."

"What does he have to think about?" he queried.

"He's heard our conversations. Talk of him returning to New Haven, once this is all over. I assume he's out there to make sense of it all."

The mage's brow furrowed, and Solas gave a slight shrug. They sat in the living room, where the fire was dancing at their elbow and outside, snow had begun to fall. The temperature would hit supreme lows that night; Dorian felt for those poor people who lived in wooden shacks, without even a proper hearth to keep them warm.

"Has he…has he spoken about it?" he asked, adding; "I meant to talk to him, but what with the war effort I haven't had the time."

"He hasn't, no," said Solas; "I broach the subject occasionally, but he finds some way to change topics. Fear not, Dorian. At least he hasn't refused the idea outright this time."

The comfort was small, but it was still comfort. Dorian thanked him for it and went to the dining room, where he had been plotting a small map with areas most likely to be destroyed should the war erupt inside the city.

Marker lines scored down the paper like red rivers, and as his eyes roamed over them he noticed many of those areas were slums, meant only for habitation by poorer folk. The realisation made him sigh. Without enthusiasm to continue, instead he stood and moved to the backdoor, which he opened to reveal a garden filled with falling white snowflakes.

The stone benches, save for the one Fareld was on with his back turned to Dorian, were coated in a thin layer of snow, and the trees were becoming heavy with it. The few animals he could see were scampering to their burrows. A squirrel not yet in hibernation caught his eye and, after freezing for a moment, hurried off into one of the white-topped trees, where it vanished. It left tiny paw prints in the thin blanket on the ground, and where it ran along the branches it disturbed snow there and made it tumble in white waterfalls.

He approached his son. The boy's head was bent down, his hands busy with something, and in the back of his mind Dorian was reminded of a child waiting for punishment. Fareld looked deep in thought and as such paid no heed to his approach.

The mage thought he was silent, but as he came nearer to the spare part of the bench he saw his son lift his head up slightly towards him. The stone was cold as he sat. He saw an inscrutable look on Fareld's face when the boy acknowledged him, but then he was looking down again.

He was fiddling with his mother's pocket portrait.

"The snow won't make things easier," Fareld said, his tone thoughtful yet despondent; "Have there ever been any great wars in snow?"

Dorian shrugged; "We might make history there."

Fareld let out a little huff of laughter, his lips unmoving, but as his body settled he looked down at his portrait, and then to the side of them.

"This isn't a piece of history I want to be part of."

"No?" his father replied.

"No. I thought I did, but…" he wearily shook his head; "War is a lot different in real life than it is in books."

His father agreed, and for a moment there was silence. The air was cold; so much so that Dorian spared a thought for his robes inside and wished he had brought them with him. His only consolation was that Fareld had had the good sense to keep his cloak on, despite how thin and wet it looked.

"Solas tells me you come out here a lot," he said to break the silence. Fareld shrugged.

"Sometimes," he replied; "It's quiet enough to think in. I like watching the animals."

"Is there something on your mind?"

The boy hesitated for a moment. A thought flickered in his mind, for Dorian could see a glimmer of emotion on his face. Soon, he lifted his pocket portrait up, gesturing to it while his eyes stared far off in the distance, beyond the iron gates that fenced the garden.

"Mother. Legionnaire. The people who've died."

"I see."

"They weren't supposed to. They didn't need to. It's pointless that they died for a war that doesn't even mean anything."

Dorian went to protest, but instead Fareld sighed and went on:

"It's just another war to fill up our lives. That's all this seems to be about. We're born, we occupy ourselves for a few years, and then we die. There's nothing more to it than that."

"Our lives are important, Fareld. How history plays out and how we act shapes the world for future generations."

"But what's the _point_?" he asked; "Not all of us are like Bryce, who actually has a gift. Most of us are just doing what we have to so we can live to tomorrow. But for what? Why is it so important we survive? If there were none of us left, who would care what we did? And what about those who do nothing on a grand scale with their lives? Who remembers them?"

"Their families."

Fareld looked away then, as the word had hit him at a deep level. He felt as if he'd found new people to be friends with, but there was still a niggling thought in his head that told him no, his father would hurt him, his father would leave him. It was not an easy fear to cast away. Even with Dorian's promise, the words of his mother were in his mind, and he could remember clearly the vitriol she'd spouted.

"Fareld…" the mage began, his voice tentative and tactful; "I know there's been some talk recently-"

"Is this about New Haven?" he interrupted. Still the boy did not look at him. He had raised his head, but his eyes were cast off into the streets, looking at the gates of other houses with a blank stare.

Dorian sighed; "Yes. I've been meaning to speak to you about it."

"You want to take me there after the war."

"No. I want you to come back with us – not for us to take you."

"What's the difference?"

"One's your choice."

Fareld shrugged, but he made no argument. The snow fell heavy on his shoulders and to Dorian, he looked rather small in it.

"I know it's been hard here," the mage went on; "I know you missed her and your mother wanted you to have the best life. Which is why I'm asking you to come to us. Fareld, Tevinter isn't the place for people like us to be happy. There are rules here; parts you have to act if you want to fit in."

"How do you know?"

He squeezed his eyes shut. When he spoke, he did so in a quiet voice, almost as if he were afraid to admit it.

"I left because someone wanted me to play them."

Fareld looked up. In his eyes there was a question, but he didn't say it out loud. His father read it clearly enough.

"My father, Halward. He tried to use blood magic on me."

"Why?"

"I wouldn't take my cue, marry the girl, settle down and have kids," he glanced at him; "More kids."

"You don't like girls."

It wasn't an accusation, nor a realisation (Dorian would have to rethink his son's observational skills if it were) but rather a simple statement of fact. He looked at his father, blank faced and absorbed, as he waited for him to respond.

"No, I don't." He agreed; "And he didn't want that. He wanted our line to carry on. He wanted me to have a secure future, like he did."

"So he risked something as dangerous as blood magic?"

"It hurt," he admitted; "To think my own father couldn't accept who I am, and tried to change me against my will. I found out, and I left."

Fareld sat for a moment as though absorbing the information. He looked at his father, brow furrowed, and when finally he spoke Dorian could hear the shiver in his voice:

"So you never left me behind?"

"No. I didn't even know about you."

"My mother said you didn't. But, I always thought…" he trailed off.

"That she might have? No, Fareld. That's the only truth she told you. I never knew, and if I had, perhaps things would have played out differently."

Fareld's eyes drew to the side, though his face stayed turned to Dorian. There was an air of thoughtfulness to him that seemed entirely different to the last. The snow continued to fall, heavier now, and in the back of his mind the mage made a note to wrap things up quickly. His son's health was not at its peak yet; no telling what the cold could do to it.

"Why didn't you tell me before?"

Dorian sighed; "I didn't want to. You had enough to think about. We all did. I didn't think it would change things between us, either – you didn't seem to care much."

"It changes everything."

There was a long while in which neither said anything. Dorian looked out at the snow, so white and pure, and spurred to words he said:

"I thought to myself: 'One day, I'll come back. I'll come back with new ideas and I'll show the people what they're doing wrong.'"

"Why didn't you?" he asked with genuine curiosity.

"Things got in the way. I found the South charming. I travelled for a while. I met Bryce. I joined the Inquisition. I fell in love. I still planned to leave, of course, but those went away the more I came to love my friends. I was happy where I was. When they rebuilt Haven as New Haven, we left Skyhold to operate there."

"Permanently?"

"Semi-permanently. I've no doubt we'll return to Skyhold, or go wherever we're needed. Like here."

Fareld looked at him once more. In his eyes there sparked a sort of recognition, as if he was realising something or making a link, but whatever it might have been he did not elucidate.

"I want you to come with us," Dorian said; "not because I think you have to or it's your duty, but because I think Bryce and I can give you a better life than you'll have here."

"This was my mother's home," said he, though it was not a refusal, rather a sad declaration of fact.

"I know. But she's gone now, Fareld. And I'm sure she would want you to have a childhood, even if you have to grow up next to the Herald of Andraste, a spirit, an elf and a Qunari."

Dorian playfully smiled at him, and Fareld responded with his own, if a little thin and half-hearted. He looked out again at the snow to mull his words over.

"I'll think about it," he finally sighed; "but I can't promise anything. This is the Tevinter Imperium. If she wants me to stay, then that's what will happen."

Dorian nodded. Then, glancing at the snow around them, he said; "Come on. Let's get inside, in the warm. I'll bet Solas has found something else for you two to research."

The pair stood and went to the door. As Dorian closed it behind them, he felt as if he had climbed to the top of an insurmountable mountain; and now that he was so close to victory, he hoped Fareld would come with them.


	41. No Man Left in Snow and Storm

The moment Fareld saw his chance to escape, he took it.

He enjoyed the manor, and more so enjoyed the time he spent poring over books with Solas, but he had grown restless. The opportunity came when Bull returned for supplies; he saw the great Qunari leave the door ajar, and with no one in the hall at the time slipped through it, bow in hand. The air outside was cold and sharp, settling into his bones as he hurried along the path and came onto the street, itself covered with a thick, white blanket of snow.

Bull descended the stairs and glanced about the house. He saw Solas hard at work in the living room, and yet there was no sign of Fareld near him, or even in the empty dining room on the other side. The Qunari's brow furrowed, and laying his burden on the last step – a small box of daggers – he went to question Solas.

"Fareld?" the elf called, and after a moment's pause said; "Is he in the garden?"

There was some freedom in it. As Fareld wandered through the streets, he heard in the distance birdsong, and far beyond him he could hear the faint cries from the city of tents. He saw around him those large, glorious houses he had always thought blessed; now he lent a thought to those born inside, all forced to participate in some elaborate play, and those fortunate, unfortunate children they bore were the next Acts. Had he ever been born an Altus and not instead elevated to one, he fancied he would have done the same thing as his father.

He was uncertain yet whether or not he admired Dorian.

"He's not there," Bull announced when he returned; "Just like I thought. Where else does he go?"

Solas stood, a look of bewilderment in his eyes. The book he pored over was left on a page about some obscure incantation, and with a slow voice he said:

"No. He's either here or outside."

Bull looked at him, and on his face dawned a look of terrible realisation. With one glance, he surveyed the room. To his horror, Fareld's bow was gone.

"Damn it! Fareld, when I get hold of you-!" he went to the door, left ajar, and saw with a deep frown small footprints leading down the path.

"Let's hurry," Solas urged as he took his thick robe from the sofa; "Fareld can move fast, even with his wound. And if he collapses out there, we have to find him."

The boy went first to the tavern, where he was greeted by the barmaids. Though his reputation preceded him – he was known to cause stirrings within the guard, more so now that he'd brought the Inquisition –the women there were always kind.

"Is this the boy I heard was near death only two weeks ago?" laughed Danielle, who was a blond haired beauty of mixed repute, an ex-prostitute who went on to own her own tavern; "Well, you look a bit pale, but nowhere near death."

He smiled and replied; "I was lucky. I can live to fight again."

"Is that lucky?" she asked as she drew him up a stool; "I wouldn't think that."

Fareld shook his head to the stool. Had he come for a simple drink, he would never have made the trip.

"I'm looking for Gnaeus. Is he working today?"

"Gnaeus? As far as I know, he's in the city of tents. Quite a good job he's doing, too. His father would be proud."

"We're all proud of him. I am, at least," the boy smiled at her and, going to the door, for the area was quickly filling with soldiers and revellers, he made as though to leave.

"How is it we haven't seen you for so long?" she called before he could vanish; "You've been recovering for a while now."

There was a wicked grin on his face as he turned to her. Though the knot in his stomach twisted, and guilt weighed heavily upon his shoulders, he replied in a mischievous tone:

"I'm officially under house arrest. If you see the Herald or my father, you never saw me."

Bull and Solas followed the footprints, but when they came on a busy street it became more difficult. Their thoughts were of muted panic – how was it that Fareld could have slipped out without their notice?

The elf had decided to follow the smaller footprints, and so his companion took his lead. There were many times when those were obscured. Horse hooves, workmen, labourers and the like had travelled through some of the busier sections, and though they managed to pick Fareld's out his track wavered a few times, as if he were unsure where to turn next.

"We need a bell on this kid!" Bull said in exasperation.

"He does make it difficult to look after him."

"I know he's his own person, but he's ill and it's cold, and Dorian isn't exactly going to see this as a little oversight on our part."

"Our part?" Solas gave a little snort; "After the roof incident, he's more inclined to blame me for what Fareld does than any of you."

"You obviously weren't there for the ceramic cat incident."

"That was completely your fault. Fareld wasn't allowed his bow and you gave him a cat to target. He's getting better, but it might still upset his wound."

Bull huffed out a laugh; "He's practicing. It's normal. Besides, you should've seen his face. Pure magic."

Fareld turned into the city of tents, though not without a hint of trepidation. From afar he'd spied his father; the man was with Bryce, talking, he saw, about some schematic the Herald held in his hand, and the boy resolved to steer clear of the main tent and take a longer route to the ironworks.

The soldiers there all wore dented armour, yet their manner was enthusiastic and determined. They greeted him as though welcoming a hero home – something he nodded to and accepted, even if he feared his father would be alerted.

"Fareld!" someone said beside the soldiers' barracks, and he turned to see Nirornor sat on a stool near the tent flaps, smiling a wide smile; "It's good to see you!"

The boy could only stare at him. His mentor had a new eye-patch that covered his right eye, and bandages swathed his head, bloody and unchanged. The way he sat – a hunched, stooped figure – made him look much older than he was, and weary lines were scored around his eye socket, where now dust made its home.

"_Nirornor?_" he said as he went to him, shocked and bewildered; "What happened to you?!"

The man gave a gentle laugh, his lungs obviously in bad shape, for they were imposed by a slight cough; "Before the Templars retreated, I dropped from the wall to fight. Someone put a sword right through my chest. Punctured a lung. I'm lucky to be alive right now."

"That makes two of us."

"They weren't finished with me after that. I won't be seeing with this eye again. Had a concussion, too, that put me out of practice for a few days. I've been more worried about you, though."

Fareld's lips twitched and he looked away; "I'm still standing."

"It was touch and go there for a while."

"How do you know?"

"Bull spoke about it a lot. That dwarf, too – what's his name, Varric?" the man gave a slight shake of his head.

Again, Fareld's lips twitched. A deep bloom of warmth burst in his chest, and he recognised it for what it was. That people he had once vilified and hated were concerned enough to speak about him…it was touching, and something he'd never experienced before.

"I like them," he admitted quietly; "Even Bull."

"Even Bull?"

"Especially Bull," he amended.

Nirornor gave him a small smile, almost sad in its way.

Solas turned into the city of tents, and gave a slight moan when he saw Dorian nearby. He was not quick enough; the man caught sight of him almost immediately and, with a puzzled frown, approached him without delay.

"Solas?" he said, and then to his companion; "Bull? What are you two doing here?"

The Qunari was meant to be on the training grounds, and of course Solas was meant to be with Fareld. In his heart, Dorian felt a twinge of fear. The routine had become almost forgotten; had his son broken another rule?

Bull glanced at Solas. There was a message contained in that glance, but so quick was it that Dorian didn't catch it, and instead he was faced with the warrior's weary sigh. He put his hands on his hips, speaking to the mage with a candour so inherently Bull, it was almost synonymous with his name.

"Fareld ran off again," said he, and without waiting for a response; "His tracks lead here."

"_What?_"

"He must have slipped out when our backs were turned," Solas told him; "None of us saw him leave."

"Have you seen the snow out here? This isn't good for his wound!"

"We're aware of that. That's why we came after him. He went to the tavern first, but no one will own up to seeing him."

Dorian's face became clouded with anger, but soon it dispersed, replaced instead by a certain panicked weariness – something only fathers and mothers could feel, Solas mused.

"He's here?" the mage asked, and the pair nodded.

"I'm willing to bet Gnaeus will know."

Fareld had moved from Nirornor, after making sure he was alright, to the ironworks near the gates. Here, there was no snow. It had melted in an almost circular shape around the great fire-pit. The pit was lit aflame as Gnaeus went hard to work, and underneath his hands the boy could see his mighty hammer, his 'cursed anvil.' There was something so modestly terrific in his art, the man had never needed to elaborate on it.

"Gnaeus!" he cried, to which he looked up.

A wide smile erupted on the man's face, now with a small beard growing, and throwing down his hammer he held out his hands. Fareld pelted towards him.

"There you are!" said the blacksmith as he gave him a great bear hug; "Well, you gave us all a big enough fright, didn't you?"

He smiled; "I'm glad to see you too, Gnaeus."

"You're looking pale."

They parted, and with a wicked glint in his eye the boy laughed:

"I'm half-ghost now. If you see me walking through walls, ignore it."

Gnaeus laughed; "Wonderful. I might need you to scare a few of my ex-girlfriends."

The boy shrugged with a wide smile. It was always the same with Gnaeus. Their jokes were often juvenile, their discussions light-hearted, and though their situation was far from childish it felt nice to act as though it was.

"So, Fareld, how is it you're out here, hm?" the blacksmith asked as he went back to his work; "Last I heard, Dorian was making sure you stayed in the warm."

"I escaped. I wanted to see you."

"That's dangerous, isn't it?"

"Only insofar as if I collapse. If not, it's safe."

Gnaeus looked up, and without his expression changing said; "Don't look now – Dorian's caught sight of you."

Fareld's blood went cold; colder than the snow around him. He turned to see his father approaching them, an expression of muted fury, and behind him hurried Solas and Bull, both of whom breathed twin sighs of relief.

"There you are!" Bull said; "Damn it, kid, do you know how hard it is to find you when you run off?"

The boy ducked his head. The knot in his stomach became tighter, and under the watchful eye of his father he felt almost ashamed. Why? He had broken the rules many a time before, and never had he felt so guilty over it.

"Fareld," Dorian growled; "Explain yourself."

There was a moment of quiet. Then:

"I came to see Gnaeus. So, technically, it's his fault."

The blacksmith gave a tremendous laugh as he worked, not looking at them; "Nice try, Fareld!"

"You know you shouldn't be out here. It's cold, it's damp, and we don't need a cold to go with your recovery, much less pneumonia."

"I'm _fine_," the boy said; "I need to get out. I can't be locked in the house all day; I'm an archer, not a-"

"I know," Dorian interrupted; "but you're also recovering from a wound that almost killed you."

"I've been using my bow for five days now! I'm getting better!"

"Yes, but you're not better yet!"

The pair stared at each other, but in Fareld's eyes Dorian saw a quiver of emotion. Was that guilt? He looked deeper, bent his head down to do so, but the boy quickly blanked his gaze and let no more be seen.

"You're coming home," his father announced with a stern resolve; "and I'm taking you there."

"But-"

"Solas," Dorian turned his head to the elf, who stood to attention; "Will you tell Bryce where I've gone?"

"No!" Fareld protested; "I can walk to the manor alone. I don't need a supervisor."

"Evidently you do."

There was a call, and all four of them turned their heads to see Bryce coming towards them. At first, he was genial. He gave Solas, Bull and Dorian his bright smile, but then when he caught sight of Fareld, it turned into a frown.

"What are you doing here?" he asked. The child looked down at the ground. Bryce put his hands on his hips, and before anyone could explain to him, he sighed. "Well, you at least followed the rules for a few days."

"I'm taking him home," said Dorian; "This is ridiculous. I thought things were getting better, Fareld. I'm disappointed."

Fareld felt those words deep in his heart, and instead of retaliating, he let his head sink further down, not lifting his gaze to look at him.

Bull saw the shame as evidently as he would anger, and murmuring it to Bryce, he nodded to Dorian.

"I think he's learned his lesson," he said; "Go on, before the snow starts falling."

Dorian made as though to put a hand his son's shoulder and lead him away, but a shout interrupted him. The quintet looked up, only to see a young guard on the wall, waving his arms at them like some madman, raving to them in barely intelligible words.

"People! People!" he was shouting; "Get the archers!"

Fareld slipped his bow from his back. Without warning he darted forward, and ignoring the pain in his stomach he climbed up to the top of the wall, where he aimed an arrow for what he thought would be a great mass of Templars.

What he saw instead was a haggard group of nomads.

It was a small cluster of people, no more than fifty of them, and through their patchy clothes and tattered hats, he surmised they were all farmers. Their wide eyes looked up at him; blown, perhaps, from too little food and too much travelling, and the leader of them was a broad shouldered man of about forty years, weather-worn from many years of cultivating. In the snow that surrounded Minrathous' countryside, the group looked almost dirty.

Behind him, he heard people scrabbling to line the walls. The sections that were being reconstructed were left alone, but Dorian and Bryce stood at his side, flanking him like two messengers. The snow had long been cleared from the walkways.

The men were quiet for a long time. To Fareld, it felt almost like a face off. He knew that these people were of Tevinter – the way they held themselves said that much – but so too were they all either Soporati or Liberti, or even slaves.

"Who are you?" the Herald asked, when it became evident no man would speak.

"We've come to fight," replied the man, in a voice that betrayed a lower social class; "We want to help the war effort."

"Your men?" he gestured to the people around him.

"All the same, Inquisitor." It would forever unnerve Bryce that people knew who he was before he announced it, but such was his life now. "We've lost people. We lost people coming here."

"Can we take more soldiers?" Dorian murmured into his lover's ear, arms folded and with a protective stance towards Fareld. He noticed the boy still had his bow equipped, but he felt telling him to lower it would only lead him to disobey.

Fareld glanced up at them, and then back down to the people; "We can't turn them away."

"There's too much to fear in those forests," said the leader; "If not Templars, there's bears and the like."

"Do we have enough to arm them?"

"I have no idea."

"We must!" Fareld murmured quietly; "We lost so many soldiers in the first battle, we must have some equipment left over!"

"Fareld-"

"Are we going to turn away manpower?" he asked; "These people could tip the scales in our favour."

"They're not even trained."

"Cullen could design a crash course for them," Dorian noted.

"Would we send them into the forest, where they'll be killed?"

Bryce turned his gaze back to the leader; "How many were with you?"

"We were near on a hundred when we started out."

"Dead?"

"For their sakes, I hope so."

"How many wounded?"

"None," the leader replied; "They don't take prisoners, sir. Either you die or you escape. We can tell you some things, though, 'bout them and how they are. We've seen camps and such."

Dorian glanced down at Fareld. With a show of confidence, though he felt none, he put his hand on the boy's shoulder, and to his surprise he lowered his weapon, even if he didn't look up at him.

There was a moment's hesitation. Then Bryce turned to the gatekeeper and muttered for him to raise the gate.

"Are you sure?" he asked, and when he saw the firm nod, he turned to the lever.

"Come in," Bryce announced over the clacking of cogs and jangling of chains; "I think you and I need to talk."

The leader ducked his black haired head; "Thank you, sir. Come on, boys; inside."

Fareld and Dorian turned, while the Herald remained for a while longer to watch them come in. On the ground the pair joined again with Bull and Solas, and together they watched as the people filed in, haggard and weary, hungry and hopeless.

"It's like watching corpses," the boy murmured.

"Yes, it is." Solas agreed.

"Enough of that," Dorian put his hand on his son's shoulder; "Come along. Solas, come with us. It seems I don't need you to tell Bryce anything now."

And though it took some urging, Fareld turned away with his father, casting glances over his shoulder to see that forlorn group of travellers.


	42. Qualities of a Leader

The farmers were men of the land, and so when it came to protect it they were fiercer than dragons. Their hands, long prepared with rakes and hoes, were easy to train with swords, and as Fareld watch them at the side-lines, stood with Cole under the training grounds' canopy, he was almost impressed.

"This may be what we need," he said to the spirit beside him, arms folded and with a flutter of hope in his heart; "If we train them right, these people might help turn the tide for us."

"You have more faith in farmers than I thought you would."

The pair turned, for Cullen was the one who spoke. So lost was Fareld in watching the men that he hadn't noticed the captain come in, and with a nod towards him he gave his admission.

"When you have nothing else to hope for, it doesn't seem a far leap to have faith in the impossible."

"Well, these men are definitely strong." Cullen looked up to the small band before them, trained as they were by Bull, and his eyes were drawn immediately to their leader. There was some age-old tenacity in that weather-worn man. His sword he wielded with striking courage, his posture he perfected, and though there was some uncertainty when first he started, he now went through his exercises with ease.

"Strength means nothing if they can't wield a sword properly," Fareld pointed out; "The younger men are stumbling. If they keep at this rate, we won't have them prepared for the next battle."

"We have no idea when the next battle will happen, Fareld. Relax. We'll do the best we can."

The boy made as though to argue, but thought better of it. In truth, he was lucky to be there. Dorian had kept him under his watchful gaze for three days after his escape, and only through persistence had Fareld won the right to visit the city of tents. The snow had since stopped falling, yet the ground was still covered in it, to the point where soldiers slipped along the streets rather than walked them.

Bull barked out an order, and the boy's attention was drawn back to the farmers. Their hands had death grips around their sword-hilts and their foreheads beaded with sweat, but so far none had fallen. He wondered if that meant they were good, or they simply were not trying hard enough.

"That reminds me," Cullen turned to Fareld; "There's been an issue with the archers."

"What is it?" he asked, suddenly alert. So long had he been out of practice, it seemed all news passed by him until it was too late to do anything with it.

"Nirornor can't lead them anymore. With his injuries, his depth perception is off – and he isn't able to do much without it."

"Nirornor has always been the leader of the archers. If not him, then who?"

Cullen let out a soft smile, almost hesitant, and when he spoke he did so in a slow, careful voice:

"I've spoken to the Herald about it. He thinks the only one who should take over is Nirornor's apprentice."

There was a moment in which all was still. Then, with clarity suddenly dawning on him, Fareld's eyes went wide. In those piercing green depths Cullen could see surprise, shock, and a sort of muted disbelief. It was then he realised they were much softer than they were before, less austere, though not losing any of their acuity.

"_Me?_" he said.

"Yes," nodded his companion, and beside him Cole's head went back and forth between boy and captain; "At least, that's what we think. But neither of us have put it forward yet to Dorian."

Fareld stared up at him as though he had just claimed he was a reincarnation of the Maker. His eyes were huge and unblinking, while his hands clenched and unclenched, almost like they were searching for something to grasp, something tangible to anchor him to the scene.

"He'd never allow it," he said finally; "My father would rather see me evacuated than in battle."

"Yes, I know. But this is an exceptional situation."

"I'm too young!" he pointed out; "Most men train upwards of twenty years before this is offered."

"Again, this is an exceptional situation. Fareld, Bryce wouldn't have chosen you if he didn't think you were capable. We know you're still recovering, but it's our belief that you'll help lead the men to victory."

"And what if I don't? What if I fail and the archers aren't coordinated enough? What if the Templars get through and I'm not fast enough to do anything about it?"

His questions were made almost with desperation, as though he were begging Cullen not to consider him. There was a boyish terror in his eyes, an absence of faith in himself, and with a steadying hand on his shoulder the man calmed him, at least enough for quiet.

"Have faith," murmured he, his tone bordering between supportive and resolute; "I trust in the Herald's choice, and he's chosen you."

Dorian had taken to the main tent, where he intended soon to call Fareld inside and warm up. That he was so concerned for his son after snow seemed ridiculous, but his mind kept uttering horrible illnesses that he might catch in his weakened state;

_Flu, pneumonia, hypothermia, frostbite, collapse…_

He worked, and resolved to have Fareld brought in after another half hour had passed. As he tried in vain to read the notes given to him, the questions asked from mages and Inquisition soldiers alike, he wondered how it was he had become so attentive and high-strung with his son. Was it the fact he hadn't been there for most of his life? Was it that he knew the dangers of what he did, and therefore was more concerned about him? Or was it that he had never been a father before and, though he knew vaguely that he could handle himself, the reality of their situation and Fareld's near death experience had spurred him into over-protectiveness?

The tent flap behind him moved. He looked up, only to Bryce come in, and with a smile and a nod he acknowledged him.

"Hey," the Herald said as he approached; "Hard at work?"

"Hardly at work. I can't seem to concentrate today."

Bryce wrapped an arm around his lover's waist, leaving a gentle kiss on his temple, which was met by a warm smile. In his mind, he knew that smile would vanish soon. There was a sense of dread in him as he let him go, pacing around the warm tent and giving a cursory glance to all their documents.

"What is it?" asked Dorian from where he was stood near the table; "You look worried. Has something happened?"

"Nothing's happened. I have to tell you something."

"What?"

"It's about Fareld."

He gave a gentle huff and straightened himself; "Of course. What's he done now? Set fire to one of the tents?"

"No, no – nothing like that," there was an amused smile on Bryce's face, though it quickly dropped and was replaced by a look of seriousness; "Cullen and I were talking earlier. Nirornor won't be able to use his eye again, and without it he can't be an accurate archer. His depth perception is gone."

"That's terrible. Who will lead the archers now?"

Bryce looked down, and then back up at Dorian. He said nothing, but his eyes conveyed the message he could not say himself. When the pieces all joined in the mage's head and realisation dawned on him, he almost recoiled.

"Are you mad?!" he exclaimed; "Fareld, leading the archers? At his age? With his wound? Tell me you're joking!"

"He's the only one I trust to lead them." Bryce's words became louder as Dorian walked away from him, pacing the edges of the tent in disbelief. The mage's hands were on his hips, his head was bent down, and under his breath his lover could hear muttered Tevene.

He kept at this for a while before the Inquisitor found his voice again.

"Dorian, you know I wouldn't suggest this if I wasn't completely sure he could do it."

"This is Fareld, Bryce!" he emphatically reminded him.

"Yes, and he's the only one who shows the tenacity and integrity we need."

"He's our _son._ And he's a child! His wound is still healing! What do you think would happen if he were hit again? If someone recognised him leading the others and attacked him to weaken us?"

A look of horror flickered over the Herald's face. He gazed at his lover, so shocked and angered, and yet in his heart he knew his decision was for the best. There was no quiver in his resolve. Fareld was young, yes, and he was also still in the process of recovery, but had he not considered all options before coming to the one he feared most?

"We have to do this," he said softly, approaching him to catch Dorian by the waist. "If there were any other way, you know I'd choose that instead. We've thought this through a dozen times."

"And this is what you come to?"

"This is the best shot we have at making sure the Templars don't win."

Dorian glanced away from him, but no attempt to extract himself from Bryce's hold. There were conflicting emotions in his eyes; his love for his country, the region he missed and wished would see the error in their ways, and his love for his son, whose innocence seemed to have evaporated long before they met.

"The Archon will have to be alerted," the Herald said; "and there are some formalities to go through. But this is for the best, Dorian. He'll be safer on the wall, and he's got the qualities for leadership."

"The dragon…" his lover reminded him, his voice faint and with a distant note of horror.

Bryce nodded; "The dragon is an issue. But we know it's here now. We won't be caught by surprise again."

A long pause followed. Then, Dorian's prone form relaxed, and unwinding against Bryce he gave his silent permission for the plan to go ahead. The Herald kissed the top of his head, soothing him as best he could.

"I love him too, Dorian. I know we'll do everything in our power to keep him safe."

Numbly the mage nodded, muttering in the quiet air; "I know."


	43. Daunted

Fareld felt a strange twinge of terror when he stepped out of the manor that morning. The air was cold, the sun bleak and without warmth, and as he hurried down the path he felt as though he were stepping into icy water.

Within the week of his appointment, much had happened for the archers. Nirornor had announced to them he was to step down, and in his place his apprentice would be assigned, until such a time when another, more eligible person came forward, or Fareld decided to end his leadership. There was much outcry at his promotion. There were those who said they would rather die than be led by a child, and more still who claimed he was too 'green' for the part. Few people thought he was strong enough to lead them to victory. Their complaints were left to the Archon, who, in a rare, formal address sent to every house in Minrathous, told them of Fareld's bravery to bring the Inquisition to them, his integrity to see his plan through, and even of his return from death's door; something that had become common knowledge amongst those who frequented taverns.

Though he was confident he could wield his own bow, the boy was nervous to lead others. Theirs was an art perfected by time and patience. How could he teach them that, when they saw him as inexperienced? When their own pride had coloured their judgement and he, though unwavering, could do little to change it? He thought of this as he travelled down those wide, empty streets, not yet full of workmen and labourers, for he had chosen to rise early that morning and meet the others at the training ground.

The Herald opened his eyes to feeble sunlight, groaning with the effort to wake. The bedroom he laid in was warm, but not terribly so. The blankets, thick and crimson, were draped around him like cloth swaddled an infant, and when he sat up it fell, exposing his torso to the chill.

Rubbing his eyes, he looked to the glass double doors. Dorian stood there, gazing out at the horizon with a hand clasped around his chin. His silhouette was aglow with a golden outline, his form black, but even as the Herald looked at him he could tell he was dressed.

_Strange_, he thought to himself: _Dorian normally needs rousing before he wakes up._

"Morning," Bryce said, yawning as he stretched; "How did you sleep?"

The mage rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, eyes still cast to the horizon; "I heard Fareld leave the house. He's going earlier these days."

"Must be eager to get to the training grounds." He replied. His response was only a half-nod, not an agreement so much as it was an acknowledgement, and with a sigh Bryce reached over to snatch up his clothes, left on the floor after a late return home the previous night.

Fareld saw the first men and women emerge from their homes. They nodded at him, an infamous celebrity, and wore smiles when they did so, but he could only copy their gestures and not their expressions. A terrible, acidic gnawing worried his gut; he thought of returning home, but cast that thought aside when he told himself he'd faced a dragon and hadn't died yet. What were a group of men, after all? If they were to turn on him and deny his leadership, he had the Herald on his side.

There were few birds in the sky when he reached the training grounds. The aisles were empty save a few of the soldiers, who had been posted there in case of late night ambushes, or the odd skirmish with a criminal. The canopies, seemed higher up, he realised, as if they were no longer weighted down.

It was then that he noticed the snow was melting, and some childish part of him mourned it. Pushing forwards to the wall Fareld tried not to look too long at the slush. There were more important matters to attend to – matters that would fare better without the snow, he told himself.

"The snow's melting," Dorian observed as his lover dressed behind him; "But there's more rain on the way. I doubt we'll see it pass over us."

"We'll deal with it when it comes." Bryce resolved, pulling his shirt over his head; "Have you seen my amulet?"

"It's on the table downstairs. Fareld found it last night, after you went to bed."

"He did? How? I never take that thing off."

"Sera?" he suggested; "She's been 'stealing' things lately."

The Herald shook his head with a half-smile as he continued dressing; "Well, I've got to hand it to her, then. A better pickpocket than I thought. She keeps things light, at least."

"She pranks everyone in those, you mean."

"It's good for them," he declared; "We all need to be reminded that we're not machines. Especially in times like this."

"And exactly how does pouring milk in people's shoes remind them they're not machines?"

"It makes them seem human, doesn't it?"

Fareld came to the wall, where he saw a few men gathered already. They received him with cool nods; none of them were the ones who supported his leadership, but for fear of retribution they kept quiet.

"Line up," he ordered; "Time to practice."

They lingered for a moment more. The boy worried they would outright refuse him – they were larger than he was, and if they did he couldn't see what he could do to 'encourage' them – but just when he felt his heart stop they acquiesced and lined themselves up.

_You can do this,_ he reminded himself as he took his place, aiming his bow: _Just…show them what to do. A few orders, and you're done. Damn it, I wish Nirornor was doing this._

Dorian followed Bryce downstairs. There he saw that Fareld had left his half-eaten breakfast on the table, ready for them to clear up.

"Of course," he murmured as he moved to do so; "He can lead an army, but he can't clear up his mess."

Bryce helped him, wiping away cold porridge with a towel, marvelling at how the boy had managed to miss the table completely when he dropped his spoon.

"He can lead the archers," the Herald hummed.

"Archers, army; what's the difference?" he called from the kitchen, where he left the bowl in the sink for Vivienne to clear up. She was the one who always went on at them about cleanliness, after all. It would surprise anyone to know she was an accomplished adventurer.

"He'll be on the wall, for one."

"A lot of good that did him the first time around."

Fareld shot out at a wolf scavenging near the forest. His arrow hit, and turning to his men he instructed them to do the same, either at a creature or whatever else they found.

"Shouldn't you be setting up actual practices?" sneered one of the men; "That's what Nirornor did."

"If you want to go out there and do that, be my guest." Fareld retorted.

"Leaders are supposed to be fearless."

"Fearless, not stupid."

"Why are we even doing this?" the archer grumbled as he took aim with the others; "It's not like we're going to survive another attack."

Fareld shook his head; "Talk like that will get us all killed. We don't want to insight panic. Raise your aim. You'll hit nothing with that."

Upwards, he could see dark clouds converging on the horizon. The smell of rain was sharp. He fancied it would come on them soon, and then he would have to make the call whether or not to train his people.

"Halward tells me the statue will be finished soon," Bryce said to his lover, sitting down to a simple meal of porridge and fruit; "What do they plan to do with it, now that he's alive?"

"That's for Fareld to decide."

"Does he even know about it yet?"

"No," Dorian bit into his apple; "and I don't want to be the one to tell him."

"Should I?"

"No. We both should."

Fareld took aim once more. In the distance, he could see a little waver in the fringing bushes at the very edge of the forest, and his brow furrowed. His hands tightened on his weapon as he lined up a shot.

Then, he saw it. The red and black that was so synonymous with Templar. It was a glimpse, but it was definitely there. With a bark he ordered one of his men to him, and the change in tone had them obey without question.

"Get the Herald," he said, never taking his eyes from the bushes; "Tell him to come here. And for Maker's sake, hurry!"

The man ran off. The others copied Fareld's lead, and in his stomach the boy could feel his wound begin to sting, strained too much and for too long, but he refused to let his position go.

"Another attack?" asked the person beside him.

"That, or an ambush."

Whoever was in those bushes, they meant to bring them harm. That much he knew. But as Fareld aimed, he heard the distant roar of the dragon, and with a gulp he wondered if their battle was to be brought forward before they had the chance to properly gather themselves.

"What do we do if they attack?"

The boy snarled; "We kill them all before they kill us."


	44. Obedience Earned

The ensuing result of Fareld's alert was that the Inquisition began to prepare.

The glimpse had given them an advantage, for this time they were ready for attack. It seemed all too obvious that the battle would come soon. The Templars would draw on them perhaps that day or the next, but Cullen kept their forces at the ready, set to exploit what resources they had with what men they had left.

Dusk had long since fallen and the black belt of night was now stretching across the sky, studded with diamond stars far off in the distance, its buckle the silver moon. Here and there were splashes of far off purple galaxies, and beneath them flittered tiny, dark silhouettes of armoured men at work. With them they carried fiery torches. These were small pinpricks of light in an unending darkness, ethereal for the moon's glow.

The Inquisition's key people were gathered in the main tent, save Fareld. The boy had chosen to stay with his archers and keep an eye on the forests. They were assembled around the table where all the documents were kept, and as the Herald glanced about his friends, he saw their grim faces and weary eyes, their eagerness to see the war over with so they could return home. The battle had been a long time coming, he thought, as formations and provisions were recited to him.

"Are the mages organised?" Dorian asked as he leant over the table; "Is everyone in place?"

Cullen nodded; "They're all in position. The archers?"

"Fareld tells me they're ready," Bryce said, and kept to himself that the claim was uncertain; "The potions?"

Solas, who stood between Vivienne and Cassandra, answered that their supplies were limited but had been distributed evenly.

"It won't last them long," he warned; "Even with the golems, if the Templars attack in the same numbers…"

"We killed enough of them last time, didn't we? I doubt they're breeding like rabbits," Varric said.

"We don't know how many there are. It's a wonder where they got enough Red Lyrium to infect them all."

"There must have been some mine that wasn't sealed off," Blackwall suggested; "If some Templars went in and dug deep enough, they might have come across some. Then they become addicted and find more friends to help them. Slowly, more and more join, until they have enough for an army."

"And the dragon?" asked Josephine; "How do you explain that?"

"Dragons are intelligent. I've no doubt it's exploiting them somehow."

"Red Lyrium might make them more susceptible," Cullen agreed, perhaps glad for an explanation that meant the Templars weren't entirely at fault; "If the dragon knows how to use it-"

"It's a dragon, not a criminal mastermind. Chances are it lived in a cave near the mineshaft and when they broke through, it decided to use them to expand its territory."

The scenario seemed the most likely, and so that was what Josephine recorded. There was little use for the documents she gathered. It was mostly date and times, history and landmarks, but she felt it necessary to keep a log; even if Minrathous were to fall, she hoped those notes would survive to tell of their sacrifice.

"The formations, then?"

Cullen looked at the Herald. He had bowed over the table beside Dorian, but though his eyes flew back and forth between papers none of the information he absorbed. There was little use for it all, he mused, as the question registered in his mind.

"We should be able to defend ourselves, if the Templars use the same methods they did before," he informed all those present; "If not, we might have some trouble."

"What's a war without a little trouble?" Bull asked. There was no amusement in his voice; rather a weariness that came from being too long overworked and too long at threat.

There was a shout outside. With a confused glance at those around him Dorian made towards the tent-flap, and without thought for whether it might be a Templar attack he threw it open.

What he saw had him in a panic.

There were no enemies scaling the walls nor foes in the marketplace, but on the walkways he could clearly see his son, caught in an altercation with some wayward archer. The man he faced was twice his height, yet Fareld was unwavering, stood as tall as he could be against his challenger.

"It's Fareld!" he said, and added before he hurried outside; "He's arguing with one of his men."

Fareld knew the men were on edge, but after one too many snide comments he'd told them to accept his position or die defenceless men. One in particular had taken offence; a strange man, thirty-two years old, who at some time desired Nirornor's position and was sour at it being handed to a boy much younger and less experienced than himself. His name was Jassin, and with a set of twitching thin lips and beady brown eyes, hair that was grey before his twilight years, his derisive attitude to his leader had led to their dispute.

"The only reason you're leading this team is because your father is a Pavus!" Jassin roared, his face partially hidden behind a dented helmet; "If you were back to being a slave-boy, you'd be no better than the rest of us."

The child gave a frustrated groan; "It's the Herald's decisions, and trust me, I like it no more than you do."

From where he stood it looked to Fareld that Jassin was a mass of dark shadows. The only light came from torches lit around them, and those were few and far between. By those he could see Jassin's eyes; mad things, he mused, blacker than coal and without much to hide.

"How is it that we, the people who've been defending these walls for decades, are overlooked when it comes to finding a new leader?" the man asked, gesticulating to a small group of archers near them, all watching in stony silence; "The Herald might be sent by Andraste herself, but he knows nothing about us – and he's closer to you than anyone here!"

The boy listened and fought with the growing rage inside himself. He felt a deep inferno coil in his gut, curling tight like a viper, and as he struggled to restrain himself, to hear what ailed his men, even the lowest of them, he wanted so desperately to reach out and push Jassin over the wall.

"I won't follow you, and I sure as shit won't let the Templars win. I'm standing independent; we'll win this war, with or without the Inquisition."

Something broke inside of Fareld. Some path that connected his rationale and his mind became severed, and with a great sweep of his hand he knocked Jassin to the side, acting only fast enough to grab the neck hole of his armour. It was all he could do to realise he was holding the man over the edge of the wall; and with that came the realisation that he could easily drop him and rid himself of a problem.

The others watched in stunned silence. Dorian, who by that point had cleared the training ground and was fast approaching the ladder, grew more nervous by the sudden quiet that had fallen.

"I won't let the pride of one man be the reason Minrathous falls," Fareld growled, voice low yet words profound; "Either you stop whining or step outside the gate alone, because if we don't have the Inquisition with us, we might as well be."

Jassin let out a faint squeal between frightened and distressed, yet the boy let him hang for a few more seconds before the paths in his head linked again. Then he hauled him to his feet, glaring up at him as he did so.

"Why can't any of you realise I didn't ask for this?" he said to the people at large; "But we're here now and we have to make the best of it. Those forests might have certain death waiting for us, and here we are arguing, bickering about things that don't matter. The past is in the past. Will you just leave it be?"

They stood staring at him for a while longer, stunned, perhaps, before the group nodded and dispersed to dot themselves along the wall. The other archers were gathering their weapons up below.

_Soon, there will be enough to cover these entire walkways_, Fareld thought as he turned.

When he did so, he almost whipped out his bow as he caught sight of his father, who had climbed the ladder and stood behind him. His muscles tense, he only relaxed them when Dorian fixed him with a slight smile.

"Trying to kill off the troublemakers, are we?" he asked with amusement.

"I got tired of the comments," he grumbled, turning to skulk towards the wall's edge. The land around them was lit silver; it struck Fareld as serene, if not for the men gathering near the gates with weapons in hand, speaking nervously to their mage friends or steeling themselves with drink.

"As would anyone," his father came to stand beside him; "but I think you've won their obedience. For now, at least. After this, you might even earn their respect."

"I don't need respect from people like Jassin."

"But it's better to have it than to always be at each other's throats."

Fareld looked out into the darkness. He saw the trees, now shadowed and indiscriminate, and wondered if the flickering leaves were his imagination or some Templar scouting out the frontline.

"Do you think I might get an answer soon?"

The boy glanced up at him. He did not need to ask for clarification.

"If we survive this," he told him; "I'll give you my answer. Until then, we have to focus on what's important."

_This is important!_ thought Dorian, but he relented and said no more.

Together the pair looked towards the darkness, and though the night was cold and their breath came out in curling white smoke, Fareld felt almost warmed by his father's presence. There was something comforting in it.

Then, his attention was drawn to something else. Out at the edges of the forest, where his eyes were roaming for a glimpse of Templar, he caught sight of a glint of silver – and with the reflexes born out of archery, dived towards his father.

"Look out!" he yelled as he crashed into him, sending them both sprawling across the floor.

"Fareld-"

A familiar whistle rang through the air, and seconds later he saw an arrow soar past, gliding where his head had been only seconds before. Fareld sat up, allowing his father to do the same.

"An attack!" he shouted to the soldiers on the ground; "Get ready! It's time to end this!"

The archers scrambled to the ladders. Dorian was quick to get down them as he saw throngs hurrying towards the walkways, where now his son began to gather the men and make sure they were properly equipped. Many kept their eyes rooted to the trees. No more arrows soared, but those shadows were quickly becoming animated, darkness taking shape of black armour and red crystals.

"Dorian!" he heard Bryce call his name from the main tent; "At the gates, hurry! We're all ready!"

As he joined the ranks of his friends, each one with sword and shield, crossbow and staff, Dorian felt a deep foreboding wash over him. He glanced around the faces of the people he knew; faces he might never see again, for he was sure the war would take at least one of them, and if not would have them melancholy for weeks.

"Is Fareld alright?" Bryce asked. The man was at the ready, poised to pounce on whoever might threaten him, but there was a deep concern in his eyes when he questioned him.

"He's fine," replied the mage; "Let's get this over with. I've had enough of sleeping in that manor."

With one last nod, the Inquisitor turned. They went through the gates and immediately he was at the head of the army, flanked on one side by Cullen, the other Leliana, while behind him stood the rest of his friends, save Josephine.

The Templars had thronged around the forest, where now they stood staring at their foes. Fareld he raised his bow and his men copied him, yet still he called for them to hold fire. The golems stood equidistant in the crowd and waited for the command of some unseen operator.

There was quiet for a long while. It disconcerted all those who stood near Minrathous, and yet the Templars seemed fine with it. There was no sign of the dragon, either in the sky or the mountains, or even on the ground before them.

Then, a cry from the other side plunged them into chaos.


	45. The Damnable

The land was once more a haven for battle, and below him Fareld heard the shrieks and howls of brave men meeting their ends.

Red crystals almost pulsated under his gaze as the Templars lunged forward, slicing down whatever soldiers they found in their path, though some were strong and overpowered them. The mages sent out fireballs, sparks, and ice, all of which made for occasional bright patches that caught his eye, but were dead before he could use them.

The countryside was an indiscriminate mass of people warring; he could see the metallic hide of Bull somewhere near the gates, spied Solas's bald head further on, yet no more could he see.

"Hold fire!" he called out to the long lines of archers that flanked his sides, standing on the raised platform where Nirornor had stood before him; "Keep steady!"

"We have to shoot!" cried another man somewhere on his left.

"Not yet! Keep your aim!"

On the ground, there was little relief. Iron Bull fought with all the strength of his namesake, but at his height he could see the numbers around him. If he were a lesser man, he knew he would have been overcome by the sight. There were hundreds, if not thousands, and all of them were outfitted with armour and weapons.

The Templars were as maniacal as he remembered them to be. One launched himself at his side, but having misjudged how solid the Qunari was he staggered to the ground, where he was killed by Bull's almighty hammer.

There he saw the crowd thin nearer the gates, and amongst the fighting bodies Cole stood his ground. The spirit was a better combatant than he let on. He fought despite the obvious pain he was in, shown through winces and grimaces, flinches and gasps; and as Bull approached there seemed to be no sign of him slowing.

_Cole's got more kick in him than he likes to admit,_ he thought as he helped despatch the enemies surrounding his friend. Well-timed swings and distracting roars sent most of the Templars sprawling, and soon they were lost under the tide of soldiers.

"Come on," he held a great hand out for Cole, who took it to help clamber over a Templars' corpse; "There's more where they came from."

"Why aren't there any arrows?" the spirit hurried beside him, killing men as he went, though in close proximity Bull found it harder to ignore his pained murmurs; "Isn't Fareld supposed to be helping us?"

"I have no idea – he must have some plan. Careful!"

A Templar had lunged at them from a small cluster of soldiers, and the sheer surprise of it sent their men careering down to the floor. Bull pushed Cole away as he met the assailant's head with his hammer. There was a sickening crunch as skull met metal, and the Templar fell lifeless to the ground.

"Come on," Bull wrapped his hand around Cole's arm, urging him onwards; "We have to find the others."

Cassandra and Cullen had found themselves near each other when chaos broke loose, and so had formed a small team to combat their foes. Red eyes would forever be burned in Cullen's memory as he slashed through man after man, some he thought there may have been hope for, but others he knew were too far gone in their addiction.

"Where are the arrows?!" Cassandra barked, casting a quick glance upwards to see the motionless archers; "What do they think they're doing?!"

"Fareld must have told them not to shoot. Look out!"

The man struck forward with his sword, and Cassandra saw in her peripheral vision a Templar stagger backwards, groaning in pain. There was no time to enjoy the sound, for it was lost in the din around them.

"Who in their right mind would give that order? In the middle of a war?" she lashed out at an advancing foe. Her sword struck against armour, but the man quickly withdrew. He was immersed in the countless skirmishes around them, stumbling over the corpses of his brothers and theirs, and for one mad moment Cassandra thought to go after him.

_No personal vendettas. They are all your enemies, not just him._

"He must have a plan," said Cullen as he drew up to her side, standing with his stomach faced towards her arm, his head turned towards the archers; "For our sakes, I hope he does."

Bull and Cole fought through the crowds enough to find Dorian, who by that point was alone. He and Bryce had tried to stay close, but a throng of Templars had separated them and since then he had been trying to find the Herald.

The mage had formed a small, protective barrier around himself to keep back those who might advance on him, but as he fought, sending fireball after fireball into the crowd, he became further agitated by thoughts of his son and lover. The anxiety made it hard to focus.

"Dorian!" he looked up to see the Qunari; "Hold on!"

Glad for the help, Dorian went towards them as they slashed and hacked their way through the crowd, he preferring to roast and boil. Their greetings were brief; nods of acknowledgement were shared, and then combat became the forefront of their mind.

"Where's Bryce?" the Qunari knocked a frenzied foe backwards with his arm.

"I lost him in the first few minutes!" Dorian replied, and then lunged forward with an ice-ball to freeze the feet of an approaching man; "Has no one else seen him since this all started?"

Bull gave the crowd a quick sweep with his eyes. From afar he could see Solas not too far from where they stood, joined as he was by Varric and Vivienne, yet he could not see Bryce. Blackwall was some ways left of where the other three were; he was with Leliana, and together the pair fought with surprising fluidity, more congruent than he thought they would be.

"He must be on the other side!" he moved backwards, where Solas fought; "Come with me! We'll get the others and make our way towards the gates. He must be there!"

Dorian turned his gaze towards the wall, where he saw Fareld stood atop the raised platform, prepped but immobile.

"Why isn't he doing anything?" he asked as Cole tried to draw him onwards.

"We have no idea," the spirit told him; "Come on!"

There was a protest on his tongue that died, and with one more forlorn glance at his son the mage allowed himself to be pulled away.

Fareld felt his hands tremble on his bow. His wound stung, and he fancied if he waited any longer he would have to order the men to shoot.

Then, a miracle. A miracle that came disguised in the cloak of disaster.

He heard in the distance a familiar roar. The mountain was all a tremble with it, quivering as great black wings appeared to blot out the stars, and fiery breath crackled orange against the purple-black sky.

"Raise your bows!" he cried out, and the order was followed without delay, each arrowhead aimed for the dragon; "Keep your aim! Hold! Hold!" it drew nearer and nearer, wings so powerful the wind from them sent men below flying; "FIRE!"

The clamour was dulled by whistles as the arrows were let loose. The dragon flew closer towards the wall, but as it did so arrows rained down on it and its scaly hide, making it howl and quickly change course. It careened from a straight line to an aimless circle, trying in vain to shake the missiles now assaulting it.

Cullen and Cassandra had watched the dragon appear, and when Fareld had set his archers on it they screamed with delight. The boy's plan had been all along to distract the dragon, buying those on the ground time to thin the enemy's numbers, and giving his archers a more concrete target on which to aim.

"He's good!" the Seeker said as she blocked an attack with her shield, slashing out at her assailant seconds later; "We may avert a disaster this time."

It was then that the crowd thinned somewhat around them, and as luck would have it Bryce charged through. The Herald was fighting back a group of four men, all with swords, and on seeing this the warriors were quick to aid him.

"Herald!" said Cassandra, her sword plunged deep into a Templar's chest.

"How long have you been alone?" Cullen asked.

Bryce only shook his head at them; "Never mind that – we have to find the others! We're stronger together!"

"I think I saw Solas somewhere near the golems," the ex-Templar turned to peer through the chaos; "Yes, over there! And Bull, too! They might have the others with them!"

The trio wasted no time. Their attacks were brutal, their cries unyielding, and with practiced force they made their way slowly through the bedlam, heading towards Bull.

Fareld and his men were relentless, but their arrows were limited. The child had theorised that if they kept shooting at the rate they were, they would soon run out. And what of those poor men on the ground left unprotected?

With a bellowed order he told them his plan – his right side would turn their aim to the ground forces, and his left would keep on their assault.

"Are you mad?" he heard Jassin scream, and wondered for a moment whether the man would argue with Andraste herself; "If we stop attacking it now, the dragon will turn on us!"

"Do as I say!" he fired and caught the beast's lurid green eyelid; "There's enough here to defend everyone. Do it!"

The golems he saw as vague grey shapes lit by a silver glow, and he forced himself not to linger too long on them. Their operator was a man of few techniques. It seemed he preferred to have them throw their enemies in the air and let gravity end them – a strategy that kept them intact and unharmed, but meant some Templars had the audacity to live.

"Get down!"

He and the others ducked when the dragon swooped low over them, and by mere inches the wall was missed by its awesome tail.

The creature swept over the city, but to Fareld's surprise it set nothing aflame. Instead, it roared that terrible roar that shattered windows and eardrums, and then powerful wings were stretched out and it began to turn.

"It's coming back!"

The men fell into a frenzy of targeting. The dragon drew nearer, baring fangs as large as monoliths, and too late did Fareld realise it soared towards his platform, where he stood without an arrow aimed. The creature's tail hung low between its clawed feet.

"Keep firing!" he called as he uselessly threw his hands in front of his face.

Dorian had been elated to see the crowd disperse. Cullen, Cassandra and Bryce had broken through them, and in a show of relief the mage leapt towards his lover, helping to despatch those who were still hot on his heels. All around them the world had tumbled into a red and black chaos, tinged by silver light, and painted by the horrible, lurid blood of dying soldiers.

"I thought you were dead!" he admitted above the noise; "When I couldn't find you, I thought something had happened!"

Bryce turned soft eyes towards him; "No, not yet. But we have to keep moving, or that could change very quickly."

The pair turned. The team was now all together; Blackwall, Bull, Cassandra and Cullen worked to keep the enemies back, while Solas and Vivienne kept a barrier around them. Leliana hacked and slashed at those who came too close to the mages, as well as Cole, and now with both Dorian and Bryce in the mix, it seemed all was not lost for them.

Then, Dorian looked up.

"No!" he shouted at what he saw, lunging forward; "Fareld!"

From where he stood he'd seen the dragon's tail smack into his son, and for a horrible moment watched as he became airborne. Fareld was thrown backwards; his hands fell from his face to wave frantically in the air, and then he vanished into the undulating war below, out of Dorian's sight.

The Herald caught him before he could go far. His lover shouted Fareld's name, over and over with increasing desperation, and fought like a madman to break free of his hold.

"We have to go together! There's no use going alone," he told him, but his words fell on deaf ears.

"Fareld! Fareld! I have to help him!"

The team were shouted the situation by Bryce, and instantly turned to where the boy had fallen. There were hundreds of enemies between them and he, but with a renewed vigour they fought through them, desperate to find Fareld in the midst of all that madness.

The ground was hard for the cold, and when he landed Fareld felt his arm dislocate. The child drew his head up to see feet trampling near him, a throbbing pain in his shoulder as he glanced to his injury.

"What am I made out of?" he grumbled, for he was certain he should have died from that fall.

The boy was on his front, yet with no small amount of difficulty he flopped to his back. With his uninjured arm he reached to his shoulder, and gritting his teeth he twisted, curtailing a scream as he popped the limb into place. Though it was secure, the arm was almost useless to him. He realised then that his bow lay at his side – crushed to pieces, and then trampled by the dozens of feet around him.

There was a moment in which he wanted to lie there and let one of the Templars end his misery. His body ached, his wound was aflame – he saw it had reopened, too, for his shirt was stained with blood – and as he looked about him, saw death and destruction everywhere, he felt the last reserves of strength seep from his bones. The noise that invaded his ears made his head throb. There were constant shrieks that signalled a poor man's final moments, and on hearing them, Fareld was almost jealous.

Then, he saw a Templar catch sight of him. The man slipped from the small band he had formed, for it seemed they were still capable of thought in their madness, and with insane eyes he hurried towards him, a weapon raised for the killing blow.

That moment, something snapped inside Fareld. The will to live found him again. As he held out his hands he sent a wordless prayer, asking for Andraste to guide him, and digging deep within himself he summoned the strength he needed.

The result was a large shower of sparks erupting from his hands. The Templar was caught unawares, and in his haste to reach the boy he went through them.

His screams would haunt Fareld's nightmares. He sounded like a thing enraged, but no human could have uttered that which fell out of his mouth, no person could think of noises so alien and horrifying. The Templar tore left to right, on fire, electrified, as his own panic drew him into a soldier's blade, and that same soldier then immersed himself in the crowd without helping Fareld to his feet.

Dorian had seen the outburst of sparks somewhere to the left of him, a mere forty paces away. With frenzied panic he tugged at Bryce's arm, and Bryce, though himself desperate to reach the boy, ordered the others to clear the area before they made their way to him.

"No one can survive a fall like that, Inquisitor" Leliana told him as she lashed at their foes with her dagger; "He's dead."

"We have to make sure. Quickly!"

Fareld stood up, despite the protests of his muscles. With a limp he moved through the crowds, thankful when those around him realised his injury and bravely defended him, if only for a while. His progress was slow and he had no real idea where he planned to go.

_Dorian,_ he thought: _I have to find Dorian._

It was then that he spied the great horns that stood so tall above the crowd, and in another setting he may have leapt for joy. Instead he limped towards them, careful to avoid those that might cause him harm or, worse, might harm soldiers to reach him.

"Fareld?" he heard his name cried; "Fareld? Where are you?"

"I'm here!" clutching at his useless arm, the boy hobbled through the forest of legs; "I'm here!"

Dorian heard the familiar voice reply to him. Sending out a thick whip of orange flame, the Templars that crowded them were sent flying backwards and, crouched behind them so as not to be struck, was Fareld.

The boy bowed trembling on the blood-stained ground, surrounded by Templars and armoured men, and once more Dorian realised how very small he was. In a moment, the thought was cast aside; the mage lurched towards him and pulled him from the ground, cradling him close to his chest.

Fareld made no protest. In fact, he was glad to be with him. Bryce beside them put a reassuring hand on the child's shoulder, and to his pained hiss he deduced a dislocated arm.

"We need to fix this," he said, but Fareld shook his head.

"I already did."

"You're bleeding!" Dorian exclaimed; "Your wound!"

"Don't worry about that now – we have to keep going!"

The team looked left and right. It seemed all around them there was certain death. The dragon flew aimless, triumphant circles overhead, the archers continued their fusillade, and the soldiers were all but crushed under the Templars' might.

Bull drew himself closer to the Herald, hammer brandished, voice low; "There's too many of them."

The others began to form a tight circle. From all sides there were men, manic eyed and insane, wide grins on their faces as they approached with weapons drawn. The air was filled with screams, and as they all glared at those killers, the team thought to themselves that the end had come – the war was lost.

Their wordless prayers were sent skywards. Their eyes glanced at each other and, taking strength in their solidarity, they stood firm in the face of death.

Fareld looked up at Dorian with eyes huge and frightened and lips trembling. In his father he sought comfort, and with a faint smile the mage stroked his hair, soothing him as best he could.

"Close your eyes," he whispered; "It will be over soon."

The boy did so and, tugging himself into his father's chest, he felt Bryce's hand on the back of his neck, and their foreheads came to rest on his.

The seconds that followed stretched on for eternity. In it there were a thousand shared thoughts that passed through the team, and if ever they were to think them again, the Herald fancied they might be driven mad by their horror.

Then, a triumphant shout of jubilation caught their ears.

Fareld looked up. The wall he saw was all intact, and stood on the walkways were his archers, who even without him had followed his orders to keep firing. They were the ones who shouted now.

"What-" he began, but noticed than that the others were looking in the opposite direction.

He turned his gaze that way, and his heart was elated by what he saw. The dragon, once so fierce and fearsome, had been struck by one too many arrows, and now instead of the proud circles it was careering down to the ground, nearer the forests.

It hit with a tremendous, earth-shuddering boom. Those who stood fell as the whole world trembled, and the dragon's final cry was cut short. Dorian tumbled downwards with Fareld in arm; he landed on top of him, muttering feverish apologies as he scrambled to his feet.

The great thing laid dead; with its mouth gaping and fangs on show, larger than any Dorian had ever set eyes on, there was no fear that it would spring back to life. In its hide were hundreds of arrows, some bent and broken and others straight, yet not one seemed to be the particular one that felled it.

There was a prolonged moment of confusion that followed the dragon's death, only unshared by the archers. Then the Templars began to falter – their attacks and formations broke down, their ruthlessness seemed at its end, and though the Lyrium was heavy in their veins their strength almost vanished.

The moment the soldiers realised this, they pounced. Some Templars fought back, perhaps the ones who never relied too heavily on their 'master,' yet their numbers were all too suddenly reduced. The competent ones were found and singled out, killed with ruthless efficiency, as all around the soldiers gained the advantage; those few who were left standing, bathed in their brothers' blood.

"What's happening?!" murmured Fareld as Solas lifted him from the floor.

"I think we're winning," he replied, and with a quick glance around them the child realised he was right.

Their men were quick to overpower the Templars. Their orders were to leave none alive, and with an all-too-gleeful relish they followed them. Fareld saw swords cut through necks, hands and feet, saw arrows fly through the sky and into Templars' eyes, and on not one of those men's faces did he see remorse.

In some small part of his mind, that disgusted him.

"This is…" the Herald searched for words, and then ordered; "To the gates. We need to get Fareld inside."

"But the men-"

Cullen interrupted Varric; "They aren't going to need long to end this."

It was true. For all their might and training, the Templars had become like bumbling imbeciles, lashing out without finesse or plan. Fareld was passed to his father, who cradled him close once more, and glancing about around him the boy made no protest of being sent inside the walls.

"This is over," said Leliana; "Let us celebrate elsewhere."


	46. Hours After

The hours that followed were some of the worst of his life; for even in the medical tent, tended to by healers, Fareld could hear the screams of the ill-fated Templars outside.

Their plights were over, and to the Maker they were given. The thought gave him little comfort. Would their misguidance see them cast from His eyes? He asked himself this as he was turned this way and that, laid as he was on a small, rickety bed of shambolic wood, the sheets dirtied with other men's blood.

The morning had come. Soft dawn-light touched the tent walls, and as he watched it grow stronger Fareld still heard those terrible screams outside, now without darkness to put them in place. The healers were gentle to him, for they knew; knew the terrible horrors he'd withstood, the blood on his hands, the wounds he'd suffered, and in it all, how very young he was. Their smiles made him feel as though he was safe, even if the world was in chaos.

"Where's my father?" he mumbled after some time of examination, for Dorian had been taken elsewhere to be tended to. The tent around him was full of beds, most of which were empty and blood-stained, but slowly, slowly they were starting to fill, with people either limping inside or being carried by able friends.

The healer who treated him – a plain woman of about fifty, herself with long, chestnut brown hair and a wrinkle-scored face – gave him a motherly smile. In her hands she held a potion of lurid blue, stored in a thin glass vial.

"He's been taken to another tent for examination," she said; "We thought it best if you were separated."

"I want to see him," Fareld eyed her hand with distrust; "Can I go now?"

"No, child. In your state you aren't fit to walk."

"I dislocated my arm – that's all. My legs are fine."

"Look again," she urged him as she held out the potion; "and take this, please."

Fareld looked down, and realised then that his legs were in bad shape, with rips in his trousers that revealed long cuts and dark purple bruises blossoming beside them. With a sigh he took the vial. The blue caught the ever gentle sunlight and glinted, but he knocked it back all the same.

"This is vile," he murmured, returning it to her; "Who decided it might have healing powers, when that's how foul it tastes?"

"People long before our time, much wiser than us."

Fareld made as though to respond, but instead fell silent. The medicine's bitter taste would linger at the back of his throat for hours, a strange cross between rubber and elfroot, but if it would heal his wounds he had no reason to complain.

The woman glanced at his stomach; "The bleeding stopped some time ago now. How do you feel?"

"Like I've been thrown from a wall."

"That's good," she smiled and touched his leg, which twitched in response; "At least we know you're not paralysed. The magic involved in that is troublesome."

"If I was paralysed, I'd be dead by now."

"We were told as much."

The soldiers that filled the tent weren't short of groans. Most had horrific wounds; eyes lost and hands missing; legs sliced and feet severed; fingers few and arms hanging; and that was for only a portion of the worst. Others made do without their ears, tongue or teeth, while some were broken, nervously jabbering to themselves until healers came to take them elsewhere. The armour they wore was stained with blood. Their eyes – the ones that remained – were fatigued and dull, even with their victory.

"I want my father," Fareld murmured again; "I have to see him."

"That's-"

"I have to!" he implored; "Please."

The woman hesitated. She looked for a long while into those green eyes, so astute and clever, and yet with some prevailing softness to them. She saw a young boy in front of her, his arm in a sling, his legs battered and bruised, and in the deepest depths of her heart she was moved.

"Very well," she sighed, and stopped him when he began to scramble down; "But walk slowly. Don't run. If you collapse between here and there, one of the soldiers will help you."

There was no way she could guarantee that, but Fareld nodded. Even as he stood his stomach throbbed, yet he said nothing to her – he was eager to leave and find the others.

The boy left the tent. Out in the marketplace he stumbled, seeing forests of men move to and fro, some celebrating, some too weary to do much else but walk. The eyes were brighter there. Jubilation was all abound as he weaved his way through the men; and where it wasn't shouted it was whispered.

The war was won. The Templars were defeated, and now without fear of the mountains the city could return to normal. But what of Fareld? There was still the question of whether or not he would take Dorian's offer, yet still something tied him to Minrathous, something immaterial and evasive. What business did he have there? What was it that kept him on a leash, but always hid in the shadows when he turned to see it?

The boy turned into a lane of tents and, not knowing which one his father might be in, he began to search them all. Most were storage space. He spied at least three with weapons stowed in barrels, some well used and blood encrusted, and others so new as to shine. Two more he found were barracks for the Inquisition soldiers; empty now of all but a handful of men, Fareld wondered how many would return to gather their things, and how many mementos Bryce would pass on to bereaved loved ones.

"Fareld!" said a voice, and he turned from the tents to the lane, where Solas was approaching him. The elf had many cuts on his cheeks, his hands were calloused and dirty, and his clothes were dishevelled, seams torn and fabric hanging. Still, compared to some of the others he'd seen, he was no worse for wear.

"Solas!" he hurried over to him as quickly as his legs allowed; "Is everyone alright? Are they being examined?"

"Yes," Solas assured; "Everyone is being tended to and healed. No one has any life threatening injuries."

"None at all?"

"Vivienne's foot is broken and Leliana has a nasty cut through her side."

"Anything else?"

"Varric may have a concussion after one too many blows to the head; Cullen, Cassandra and Blackwall have fractured bones, but should be walking in a few hours; Sera is being treated for slight burns; Bull has a chest wound that needs cleaning and dressing; Cole is fine; and Dorian and Bryce are taking potions for a few cuts and bruises."

He breathed out a sigh of relief. At least for that small segment of the war, the worst injury was a broken foot. None of the people he had come to admire were too hurt, none were close to death, and none would soon wheeze out their last breath like some ill-thought dwarven design.

"I have to see Dorian," he said after a moment; "Where is he?"

Solas waved his hand towards a nearby tent, without any markers or guards, and even without a chair for someone to rest their heels near the entrance.

"In there, with the others."

The boy nodded, and with a smile Solas excused himself. He spared a thought for where he was going, but soon he hurried over to the tent, opening the flap to peer inside.

Sure enough, there were the main members of the Inquisition, all sitting on unsteady beds with healers at their sides, inspecting and prodding, checking known wounds and possible wounds as they went.

Bull was dressed in a strange sort of gauze, and though he was sitting he looked well enough to walk. By the irritated look on his face, he thought the same. Beside him was Varric being urged to stay awake, clothes tattered, hair unbound, and on the next bed was Sera with her minor wounds, murmuring something under her breath.

Vivienne was tended to be three healers, which Fareld noted with a roll of his eyes, and Leliana more or less treated herself with bandages and potions. Cassandra, Blackwall and Cullen were chuckling to each other as they were examined, all three on the left side of the tent, as if nothing had happened and they were in no pain at all. Cole was on a chair nearer the entrance, but so far had not seen him.

Then, there was Bryce and Dorian. Fareld caught sight of them when his father stood to fetch something, and so too did he see him.

"Fareld?" he said as the boy limped inside; "I thought – they told me you were resting."

His brow furrowed; "They told me it was better if we were separate."

The healers paid no attention to them, though there was no doubt in his mind that they felt Dorian's glare.

Instead of admonishing them, the mage went forward to his son. He plucked him up from the floor, no longer fearful of reproach, and glad to be off his feet the boy allowed him to.

"Hey, kid!" Bull greeted him, and beside him Varric groaned; "A little louder, Bull, the other half of the world couldn't quite hear you."

Cole nodded to them under the brim of his sunhat; "This isn't the end. Tides will come. Magic and swords will meet again, on plains dark and lifeless, caught under a shadow."

_Cryptic Cole is back,_ Dorian thought with a wan smile. The others called out their greetings, much to Varric's distaste, and then went back to their conversations, idly talking the moments away.

He held his son with a sort of tenderness, mindful of his legs and wound, but on a quick sweep of the eyes he could find nothing else injured.

"How do you feel?" he asked quietly.

"Like I got thrown from a wall," he replied; "and you?"

"Minor injuries. I'll be fine."

The Herald, who had taken a potion moments before that briefly skewed his balance, stood as it wore off. He moved towards Fareld and Dorian, smiling at them despite the cut that scored down his cheek.

"On your feet already?" he chuckled at the boy; "Are you made of metal?"

"I have no idea. Probably. It's the only answer I can come up with to how I've survived so long."

"Too strong a will," Dorian suggested, laying his hand over his son's chest; "and too stubborn to realise when it's better to stay down."

The Herald reached their side and touched the boy's shoulder. There was no hiss of pain from him, and so he allowed for a delicate grip.

"I'll keep getting up until something gets me for good," he said, firm and resolute, as he fidgeted in his father's arms for comfort.

"That's what we like to hear," Bryce smiled at him, and then gestured to the bed. For the Herald of Andraste, Fareld expected more; but for fairness he realised that the Herald would make do with what his men did.

The trio moved over to them. There, he was placed on the straw mattress, and his father – fathers – settled beside him. Peace was all abound as he relaxed, weight off his leg and the throb of his stomach dulling.

"Why are they bandaging you up?" he asked Bull beside him.

The great warrior shook his head. He was lying down on the bed, head propped upwards to accommodate his horns, and his chest was a swath of white bandages, his harness moved so as to apply them.

"They're worried about infection," he told him; "I'm not. I've had worse than this, and no infection's got me yet."

"Isn't that the same logic used by everyone who's ever died of an infected wound?"

Bull shot him a half-glare. Fareld smiled, impish and content, as his friend gave a sigh and shook his head again.

"What's next, then?" Dorian murmured to Bryce, head close and voice low so no one else could hear; "Where do we go from here?"

The Herald fixed him with a puzzled look; "We tie up loose ends and go home."

"Fareld still hasn't told me whether or not he wants to come back with us."

"The war's over now. He'll have time to think."

Dorian sighed; "I worry what formalities we have to go through now."

"What do you mean?"

"You just saved Minrathous from certain doom. If good or bad news comes from the other cities, the capital stands tall. People are going to want to meet you. To thank you. Some are going to want to join us and we have to factor their numbers in. Josephine will want us to attend dinners, balls and talks, and perhaps after all that we might be able to leave."

The Herald gave a soft laugh. He expected no less from a place like Minrathous, but even in his weariness he almost looked forward to it. What had he to be sad about? His lover lived, he had a son, perhaps not in blood but in spirit, and even if Fareld's answer wasn't what they wanted, or they faced more challenges in the return to New Haven, they were still alive for that moment.

"Is the thought tiring you out?" he teased.

"No," there was a half-amused, half-exasperated smirk on Dorian's face; "My only concern now is Fareld. The people realise what he's done here; the Archon himself recognised it, and I've no doubt the Divine has, too."

"Should that bother us?"

"The people will adore him, Bryce, and he'll be granted privileges he never had before. He'll be honoured and celebrated and loved. And it might make him not want to leave."

The Herald's eyes became solemn. He glanced at the boy, now in his own conversation with Bull and Leliana, and felt a tug in his heart at the thought of him remaining.

"Will he have a good life here?"

"Perhaps, for the first ten years. And then? There might be another war, or a new hero will turn up. The novelty of a child champion might keep him going for a while, but eventually it will fade, and he'll be ignored. By that time, he might have a family. He'll be a young man, though; and you know how hot-headed young men can be."

"Eager to prove he's still as good as he was."

"Always," Dorian nodded; "which is why I want him to come back with us. We have to be careful here, Bryce. I won't be surprised if he's honoured in some way."

"And the statue?" he asked; "What's happening with that?"

The mage sighed. In the midst of all that chaos, the scares and traumas, he hadn't thought about Halward's memorial 'gift.' For a moment, he wondered if he could order it destroyed. Then he remembered he wanted Fareld to decide what it would be, and so turning to the boy he gave a small cough.

Fareld turned. He had a smile on his face, though his lips twitched with pain and in the depths of his eyes, Dorian could see discomfort.

"What is it?" he asked.

The mage searched for words, and when the moment of silence went on a beat too long, he settled for; "I have something to tell you."

Fareld's brow furrowed. He said nothing, but through wordless questions asked his father to elaborate.

"When you were asleep," he began, opting for the least upsetting word in his arsenal; "my father – your grandfather – didn't have as much hope as we did."

"A lot of people thought I would die," Fareld acknowledged slowly.

"Yes, well, he thought it so much that he made certain…arrangements."

"A funeral?"

"That," he said; "and a statue."

Once more, the boy was silent. He watched his father with a muted intrigue, neither speaking nor sighing, and not looking at anyone else but Dorian.

"It was going to be an archer and a fox. As far as I'm aware, it was commissioned before you woke up, and so it's still being made."

"My memorial statue?"

"Yes. Now that you're awake you obviously don't need it – but that leaves him with a statue he doesn't know what to do with."

Bull gave a quiet snort beside Fareld; "When did gravestones go out of fashion?"

"So I decide what happens with it?" he surmised.

Dorian nodded. He gazed at his son, who so far had withstood Templars, war, a dragon and arrows, and saw the way he glanced uncertainly at the floor, as though calculating something in his head.

"It should still be a memorial statue," he said, and then added; "But for everyone who's died in this war."

"Everyone?" Bryce asked; "That's a lot of names."

"I doubt Halward will be able to-"

"Plinths can be made, can't they?" said Fareld; "It's the only justice I can think of. All the names of everyone who's died, including the villages, including Mother, and including Legionnaire. They need to be acknowledged. They died in the Imperium, and the Imperium needs to know."

The boy was resolute; nothing could sway him. There was a certain nobility in what he wanted, and when it was said that the message would be passed on to Halward, he looked pleased enough.

"This is a good day," he murmured as the sun grew ever stronger above them; "I'm tired."

Dorian patted the bed; "Get some rest. I think we all need to."


	47. Honoured Soul of the Imperium

"This would suit you."

Fareld looked up as his father offered him a coronet; a small thing made of white gold, on which the Pavus family symbols bordered three emeralds, themselves gleaming. It was of true Tevinter invention. The bands were woven in an almost plait-like design, and left space for the gems only with circular interludes made by some clever craftsman.

The boy took it with a nod. In the mirror he saw himself clad in a ceremonial robe, light blue and patterned with crests, that at one time Dorian had worn when he and his parents attended parties. It fit him perfectly, and looking down his father saw that he was almost an exact replica of himself at that age.

The room was provided by the Magisters' building, and as the magisterium was still fresh with victory, the others were being praised for their efforts. That left only Dorian to tend to his son.

There were framed portraits on the wall that showed Archons through the ages, and above them hung great unlit chandeliers. There were wall sconces that held torches, yet no windows; the room was nowhere near an outer wall, for it laid in the very innards of the building, ready for those who had to prepare for some task or other. There were two comfortable satin-cushioned chairs near a fireplace, faced towards the mirror, and before them there was placed a table, too small to hold much more than a few thick books and three mugs. Dresser drawers were on either side, though for what reason Fareld didn't know; they held nothing in them, save perhaps a few clothes discarded by their owners, or the odd shrivelled spider's corpse.

"Nervous?" he asked, dropping on a small chair.

"Nervous?" said Fareld as he slipped the coronet on; "The Archon's honouring me in front the whole of Minrathous. I'm terrified."

"You have nothing to worry about. He thinks very highly of you."

"That doesn't mean I won't do something stupid."

He checked his reflection, and grimacing decided that his outfit was complete. The coronet gave him an air of opulence he didn't much care for. He was never raised an Altus; to wear an Altus thing made him no more one now than it did a year before.

"I have every faith in you." Dorian soothed him.

"Faith can be misplaced," he observed; "I've seen it done a thousand times before."

"The Archon is here to give you your honours. Bryce and I will be in the crowd with everyone else, and everything will go swimmingly."

Fareld said no more. Instead, he fussed with his appearance, wondering what it was that people did before they were given their honours, and then decided he would not want to emulate them.

The boy seemed so lost that Dorian wanted for a moment to say they could leave, but he stopped himself. The entirety of Minrathous waited for him; and the mage thought he deserved the recognition it would bring. Of course he and the Inquisition were praised a thousand times over – they always were, as tedious as that was – but for Fareld he slipped more into the role of the messenger, and though the people loved him and he received some acclaim, his courage often paled in their stories. He hoped this would change that.

"Do I look okay?" the boy asked, eyeing himself as he twisted in front of the mirror, checking his calves and back. The shoes he wore were black leather and reached up to his knees.

Dorian stood and went to him. Without an answer he lifted the child's head by his chin, and peering deeply at his face he licked his thumb, wiping away some minute speck of dirt.

"That's disgusting," he protested, though made no move to squirm away.

"If I didn't do it, Mother would have."

The mage stared at his son's face for a long while. His tanned complexion had returned and no longer was he pale, but there was some warmth in his gaze. The war had seasoned him and brought a little wisdom, yet there was unearthed in Fareld a boyishness his outward attitude kept hidden.

"So handsome," he said in a soft voice, then added; "Then again, your father's very handsome, too."

Fareld's brow furrowed and the corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk; "You're my father."

"Yes. And I'm very handsome."

"Well, if you're interested in old men…" he trailed off as he went to where he'd left his clothes, hanging on the left dresser drawer.

"I am not old!" he gave an indignant squawk, folding his arms and half-turning to watch him move; "I'm a young man, still in my prime."

"I'm a young man – you're a young man's father."

Dorian snorted; "I see you've inherited all my wit."

Fareld smiled, and gently he eased the pocket portrait from his cloak. He looked down at it as his smile turned melancholy, fingers careful as he caressed his mother's face, his only reminder of what she looked like.

Behind him, his father could sense the change in his mood. Lingering for a moment, he went forward, only to find him with Mari's picture in his hands and his eyes gazing softly down at it.

"She'd be proud of you," he told him as he crouched to his side, looping his arm around his shoulders; "That I know."

"Are you sure?"

Fareld's voice could have broken the most experience warrior's heart. It was choked, tiny, as though in a mere moment he had gone from impish, brave archer, to a lost little boy roaming the world alone.

"I am." He promised.

His son looked up at him, and with his melancholy smile he nodded, a hint of affection in his eyes. Dorian smiled too. For that a brief moment, he saw his perseverance pay off; even if he hadn't agreed to return with him, Fareld had accepted him.

"Thank you."

The door opened. Both of them looked up, only to see Bryce enter inside, smiling when he caught sight of them.

"Radonis is ready," he announced; "Come on."

The walk through the Magisters' building was the longest of Fareld's life, but he made no complaint. The trio exited out of a door and followed along the outside of the place, where soon they came to a corner which was the last bend to the ceremony.

The boy's stomach was full of butterflies and his throat was dry. He could hear murmuring and cheers; cheers for the Inquisition and Imperium, and even for himself. Fareld had only been a little dismayed that his role was often 'the messenger' to his people; now, standing so near where they were gathered, in that vast, grand courtyard bordered by fences, he was nervous to be seen as more.

"Hold on," he urged them, and the pair halted.

"Is something wrong?" Bryce asked; "Are you alright, Fareld?"

"I need a moment. There's…there's a lot of people."

Fareld stumbled back onto the building, where he breathed slow, steady breathes, steeling himself against his nerves. Had he ever been so uneasy? Perhaps he had; when first he saw his mother's abandoned town; when he set out to unknown regions for unknown armies; when he was dangled by that crazed Qunari over the mountainside; when he stood in front of the magisters and was put to death for loyalty; when he lost Legionnaire, and did not yet know he was gone for good; when he saw that fearsome dragon flying through the sky; and the more he thought the more he realised he had been uneasy plenty of times. But this – this was what faced him now, and so sapped his confidence.

Dorian and Bryce gave him a moment. The pair looked down at him, waiting for him to gather himself, but they were aware of the pressing time. Radonis was known for his powerful magic, his cunning and political knowledge, but his patience was rather debated.

Soon, Fareld stood. He gave a brief glance to his clothes, and then at the two men watching him.

"I'm ready," he said.

That was where the trio separated. Dorian and Bryce went to Radonis's side, where there stood the rest of their team, and the mage's own parents Halward and Aelia. Before them was a long pathway, bordered by two great crowds of people, with wide-eyed young children at the front and adults watching with intrigue. Such celebrations were for famed warriors, not child champions.

Dorian glanced at the Archon. Radonis was an unassuming man; a human, of course, who came from a family of strong magical bloodlines, and who in his grand robes and coronet looked almost slight. But he was not a man to be trifled with. His power was nearly unrivalled, and had he not become Archon Dorian fancied he would have instead turned to academia.

"Is your son ready?" the man queried, in a voice firmer than his appearance would first assume.

"He is. He's-"

A great hush swept through the crowd. So apparent was it that it reached Dorian, and he turned his gaze to the end of the path, where Fareld had appeared. There was a blaring of trumpets that played some proud song, but the child knew to stay still while this announced him, and to move forward when they were silent.

The boy glanced left and right of him. There were many people he knew there; guards and archers, even Jassin, who eyed him without hostility now. The nerves in his stomach worsened. For a panicked moment he forgot what he was meant to do, and then before him Radonis gestured, a smile on his weathered, bronzed face.

Fareld moved forward. Around him were murmurings, and he heard a faint chant from some of the children that urged him on. As with all ceremonies, there were no cries and cheers – that would come when he was officially honoured, and not a moment before.

He reached the end of the path, where he stood in front of Radonis, a man he had vowed to protect and serve. The boy's eyes were almost wide as he looked up. Beside him, he could see Dorian and Bryce, could spy his grandparents on the other side glowing with pride, and then the long line of the people he'd come to know in his journey.

"Fareld Evodius," he announced, his voice reverberating in the air; "All of us here today are indebted to you."

Some part of him wanted to protest, but he caught himself before he did so. He thought his role miniscule in the grand scheme of things.

"When we were blinded, and our magisters saw fit not to act, you took it on yourself to protect Minrathous. You went out in search of the Inquisition, not knowing if you would return, and in doing so you faced dangers far greater than most gathered here will see."

Dorian smiled at him. Fareld's head bowed slightly, unable to meet Radonis's eyes.

"And when you returned them, you faced persecution. Kaeso fooled us and put you to death. But when his treachery was discovered and you were released, you bore no ill will."

"I swore to protect," he murmured, and Radonis smiled instead of silencing him.

"Your forgiveness was so great, you risked your life for us again, and this time the war almost claimed it."

Dorian and Bryce glanced at each other. They called upon their unloved memories and realised how strong their team's solidarity was, which in turn made them smile.

"The healers thought you would die when that arrow went through you, but you lived still, even when so many lost hope. Your slow recovery was impeded; you were offered Nirornor's leadership when he was injured, and bravely you took it at the risk of your own health. You survived a dragon's tail striking you from the wall, survived the fall into the war below, fixed your own injury and, while unarmed, fought your way through to find the Herald."

There was a faint blush on Fareld's cheeks. Bryce thought it terribly out of place; it was not a glow of pride, which it should have been in his situation. He kept bowed in a show of respect, and in some part of his brain Dorian wondered if he would ever see the same humility in him.

"There are few soldiers who would do so much for so little reward, and fewer still who would risk their lives so frequently. Even after the death of your mother, when you could have easily turned your back on us, you showed the greatest kind of courage; and for this, Tevinter is in your debt."

He heard Radonis move to collect something from his robes, and remembering the ritual Fareld looked up. He glanced either side of him. Halward, proud and smiling, nodded to him with affection in his eyes, while beside him Aelia looked fit to burst. On the other, there was Dorian, Bryce, and the others, and his eyes were drawn to Bull, Solas, Cole and Varric, who all gave simultaneous nods and smiles.

Radonis produced a medallion from a black box he drew from his robes. On it, there were engravings: The crest of the Imperium, and around the edges the Tevene language, signifying his valour in battle.

Over his head and coronet this medallion was put. It rested on his shoulders as his hands were at his sides, and with a proud smile, his eyes gleaming, Fareld looked up at the Archon.

"Fareld Evodius, you are a hero of the Imperium," he said, turning the boy to the crowd and gesturing to them with a wave of his hand; "and these are your people."

There was a great thunderous cheering that erupted for the crowd. Before him the boy watched as people he knew became raucous and delighted. He stood there with a humble smile as he felt his father's hand rest on his shoulder.

They went on to their celebrations in the streets, which he himself was not expressly needed for, though his name was called out occasionally and they hailed his achievement. Their cries were still loud when he turned to the more intimate praise of his friends, father and grandparents.

"You were excellent," Halward commended; "A credit to our family."

"Thank you," he said, with a strange note of shyness in his voice. The medallion hung proud around his neck.

Aelia drew him into a hug, and told him that they had arranged a party in his honour; a party to be attended by nobles and higher bloods, to which he inwardly groaned.

"The statue," he said, which drew their attention; "Did-"

"Yes, your father told me," Halward reassured him; "The names are going to be difficult to gather, but if you're so insistent on it, Dorian tells me it's worth doing."

"Make sure Mother and Legionnaire's names are there, too. And the villages that were slaughtered. Their sacrifices were just as important as ours."

The noble nodded, and to prepare for the party later on he and his wife bid their farewells.

"Well, I suppose we have something else to do now," Dorian sighed to Bryce.

"Admit it – you're looking forward to it."

"Father will love it," Fareld teased.

And to the word 'Father,' Dorian smiled.


	48. Embers

The party was formal, and in it Fareld heard more names and spoke to more nobles than he cared to remember.

The 'second house' of the Pavus family was used; there, the hall was prepared in rather the same manner as it was for the Inquisition event. The chandeliers were lit and the mirrors cleaned; the dining hall was set with tables and the tables with fine silverware; bowls were laid out for ladies to wash their hands, and perhaps Lords if they'd a mind to; and the servants were all dressed in beautiful clothes, bowing to the boy in respect of his new status.

Nearer midnight, when dinner was over and the nobles were socialising once more, Fareld had excused himself to the balcony. There, he folded his arms to preserve what little heat he had, casting his eyes to the mountain.

In the dark it was a bold, oppressive thing. The sharp outline and jagged edges housed unspeakable horrors, and though the Templars were defeated still he thought something might lurk there. Another dragon? A rogue mage with a thirst for blood magic? A cruel dictator of some shadowy legion, who when they slept would come down and wipe out their city? The possibilities were endless and horrifying, even when he told himself his paranoia was getting the better of him.

The door behind him opened. He saw the rectangular peel of orange light fall beside him, and then vanish again as it was closed. A person approached him, yet Fareld stayed staring at the mountain, not turning to see who it was.

"I thought you might be out here," Gnaeus leaned against the banister, smiling down at him; "It's a lot warmer inside, you know."

"There's a lot more nobles in there, too. I've heard enough lineages to last me a lifetime."

Fareld's arms unfolded and he smiled. There was something friendly in Gnaeus's manner that always made him feel at home; a quality that lacked in his grandparent's guest-list.

"They're important, to an extent," he agreed as he cast his own eyes towards the mountain; "But that's not why you're out here, is it?"

The boy was silent for a moment, gathering his thoughts and forming his reply. It was true he had no love for the party – he enjoyed the medallion, of course, and the fact that now he was relieved of his 'messenger' role – but there was something more that called him out there, something even he couldn't quite place.

Above them was the purple-black sky and the diamond stars, the moon washing the world in its silver light. The stonework was all ethereal and the houses he could see were aglow, not with flames, but with that beautiful hue of night-nature.

"I'm afraid of the mountains."

He turned then, leaning his back against the banister as once more he folded his arms. With Gnaeus there was no embarrassment, but his admission felt childish, out-of-place for an honoured archer.

"Afraid something else might be waiting up there?" the blacksmith copied his pose. Fareld looked away from him, down at the whitened stone below.

"Yes," he admitted; "and that as soon as we're comfortable again, standards will slip. The army will lack soldiers and the archers will get lazy. I'm worried this isn't permanent – and after the fervour dies, people will lose interest."

Gnaeus nodded that sage nod of his; "There's always that chance. But, neither of us will have to worry about it, eh?"

"What do you mean?"

"We won't be here, will we?" the blacksmith raised his eyebrow, and when Fareld furrowed his own in reply he clarified; "The Inquisition. We're going with them back to New Haven."

"Are you?"

"Cullen made me an offer. Seems stupid to pass it up, when there's nothing going on for me here."

"But Minrathous is our home. How can you leave it behind so easily? How can you leave behind your father?"

"I'm not," Gnaeus said, a little surprised; "He's coming with me. He's with me whenever I think about him; the memories are in my head, no matter where I go."

"But this is where he worked! This is where he lived and breathed and spoke to you! How is it that you can leave this place behind, when it's the only link you have to when he was alive?"

The boy turned then, not out of disgust, but out of confusion and dismay. His hands sought out the banister. He leaned against it with a deep sigh, as if Gnaeus was committing the deepest act of betrayal in leaving.

"This is where he was," a hand came to rest on Fareld's shoulder; "but he's not here now. And if he were, I know he'd want me to go."

He was silent, but made no move to shake him off.

"You have to leave too, Fareld."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because this is where she _was_," he said; "This is where Mother was born and it's the one city she loved. Even when she had me, she wanted to stay here. She had to leave so she could look after me – and if I leave, who will stay for her?"

Gnaeus looked at him with soft eyes. Around them came the chirping of crickets, and somewhere in the distance came the cry of some nocturnal bird.

"She's dead, Fareld," came his calm, careful reply; "She's with the Maker now, and I'm sure wherever she is, she wants you to be happy."

"But-"

"The Herald and Dorian want you with them."

Fareld was silent. In his mind, he felt a strange longing to be with them too. Had he not suffered enough at the hands of Tevinter? Did he need to remain so he could feel proud of his loyalty? If he left, and went with his father to planes unknown, did it mean his achievements would be for nothing and he would be forced to think of himself as a coward?

"There's something keeping me here," he admitted quietly. "I don't know what it is. Sometimes I think it's nothing."

"Is it goodbye?"

The boy's brow furrowed and he turned to his friend. Gnaeus looked at him with wise eyes; so wise, in fact, he wondered how it was he'd never received a formal education, or wasn't considered one of the erudite men of Minrathous.

"Have you said goodbye to her?" he clarified.

"I never had a body for a funeral."

"There's no need for one. Funerals don't have to be huge – goodbyes, too. My father, he hated all these ideas of funerals and burial rites. He told me to burn him and let the ashes go in a meadow. So I did. That's the best goodbye I could have given him."

Fareld shook his head; "She wouldn't want me to say goodbye. She never did like Father."

"But you do?"

Again a prolonged pause, followed by a quick nod of the head.

"He cares," he admitted quietly as he lowered his head to his forearms; "and he tries, at least. I can't help but like him. He's my father."

"Mari would've wanted you to be happy and safe. Dorian wants that, too. So does Bryce. To be honest, them both being so ready to take you on is sort of a miracle, isn't it? Children are a big, life-changing responsibility."

"I can take care of myself," he murmured with a hint of annoyance.

"Perhaps," Gnaeus let his hand rest on his head; "but they're willing to do it for you. There's nothing left here, Fareld. The medallion's nice and speeches are great, but what else do you have? Someone else will come and make some noise about you being the archers' leader, and then you'll be a regular archer again."

"My grandparents…"

"Do you really want to live your life as an Altus?" he asked.

"Dorian did say it was all about playing parts…"

"And the only part you're good at is Fareld."

The boy turned to look at the mountain. In the night he almost thought he would see another flicker of fire at its summit, but it remained cold and lifeless.

"Think about it," the blacksmith said, giving his upper arm a squeeze; "and come back inside soon. The Herald wants to get you home."


	49. In Memoriam

The statue took the better part of two weeks to complete. Halward had asked for them to come to the park wherein the golems were once stored inert, and he told them all to bring with them some small memento of friends lost in the war. For Fareld, this was a simple task; Legionnaire's bag, where he'd kept his companion close at hand; the picture of the village family, whose dead bodies he'd seen; and his mother's pocket portrait, his last piece of her after her virtual annihilation.

Their walk was slow. The boy kept at his father's side, reticent and reserved, silent if not for the occasional murmurings that they should move faster. Dorian made no attempt to draw him out. He'd seen what was inside that bag slung over his shoulder, and in the back of his mind he knew that for Fareld, this was his mother's final journey.

By the time they reached it, the statue was put in place in the very centre, nearer to the path that it was the ponds. There were no people there, but slowly they began to arrive – parents with curious children, mostly, who nodded to both the Herald and his men with due respect.

"It's covered," Fareld observed with a hint of annoyance; "Why is it covered?"

"It's a grand unveiling. It has to be covered."

The statue had draped around it a crimson sheet, complete with the Pavus family seals, which to Fareld were starting to become more an advertising logo than anything else. He saw to the side of it his grandfather, who was deep in conversation with a sculptor of sorts, and beside him a dirty-faced, calloused blacksmith, looking as if he had just complete a years' worth of work in the space of two weeks.

"I hate this," murmured the boy the closer they drew, glancing at the wide-eyed spectators around them; "Why can't something just be private? Why does everything have to be a spectacle with nobles?"

Bull glanced down at him; "Someone woke up on the wrong side of bed this morning."

"I didn't sleep last night."

Macabre thoughts whirled around Fareld's mind, and for a moment he considered fleeing. With forced nods he acknowledged those who greeted him; people who been part of the crowd of the Archon ceremony and knew him now to be a hero of Tevinter, if not simply the messenger who brought the Inquisition to their aid.

"This will be fine," Dorian reassured him, squeezing his shoulder; "We're here every step of the way – you know that."

"I do."

Bryce gave him a warm smile where he stood beside him. The others had dispersed to speak to those who pulled them away, but soon they would form a small band nearer the plinth, the bottom of which was just visible beneath the covering.

"Don't fret," he said as he put his hands on his hips; "Statues and plaques you get used to. It's all part of being 'the hero.'"

Fareld's brow furrowed; "This is my memorial statue, no?"

"It's a hero's statue. You decided to make it that when you put other's names on there, and not your own."

"I feel unwell," he stumbled back, only to be caught by his father; "Kaffas."

The conversations of those around him could have been no more than faint hums, but such was his hyper-awareness they sounded louder than a dragon's roar. Fareld leaned heavily on Dorian, who crouched beside him as though to take him into his confidence. When he spoke, the boy had to focus to hear it.

"Do you need a moment?"

He shook his head; "I just…I have no idea what's wrong with me."

"Too little sleep, not enough to eat, and too many nerves."

Bull, who had extracted himself from a conversation with a doe-eyed, blonde haired tavern maid, approached them with his deduction. With a smile at the boy he went on:

"It's a bad combination. Solas told me to keep something for you," he handed him a piece of fruit from his harness, which Fareld only grimaced about for a moment. It was an apple, and as he took it the boy realised it seemed rather large and juicy, a far cry from those usually available in the winter months.

"Eat, Amatus," Dorian urged him; "If you collapse, how are you supposed to say your goodbyes?"

Fareld hesitated. Then he began to eat, reluctantly at first, before he began to hum and chew to the beat, bopping his head to some unknown song.

Dorian smiled and folded his arms; "Thank you, Bull. He can't seem to get much past you and Solas."

"The elf's quick, I'll give him that," nodded the Qunari; "but this is common. People never want to eat with nervous stomachs."

"Hopefully we won't have to remind him to eat in the future," the Herald said.

"I wouldn't go that far."

"Nor would I," Dorian said; "This boy is going to run us ragged, I hope you know. And when he gets into trouble, I'm letting you handle it."

None made the observation that Fareld still had no plans to go with them, and for his part the boy remained silent. Instead, he ate, looking up at that great looming statue before him with the bronze plinth, and wondered if the entire thing had been made of the same stuff. The plinth looked so careful and well-made, he almost thought it was Gnaeus's handiwork.

_It's not_, he thought as he bit into his apple: _Gnaeus would never be caught dead making a statue. What was it he said? 'Statues are for sculptors and artists – not for men of metal, like me!'_

"Fareld!"

He turned his head to see his grandfather hurry up to him. Halward's eyes seemed bright and eager, rather unlike the reserved old man he knew, and when he reached the boy he put a hand on his shoulder in welcome.

"It's good to see you," he said, and then to the others standing with him; "and you as well. The sculptor and blacksmith followed my instructions to the letter. I think everyone will be quite pleased with the result."

"Can we unveil it now?"

"No, Fareld. We must wait for more to arrive. This is a great day."

"I want to say goodbye," he said; "Can't I say goodbye and then you have your spectacle?"

The nobleman shook his silver head, and behind him Dorian put his hands on Fareld's shoulders. His touch was steadying. The boy became aware of his surroundings, of those that might see him should he continue to argue with Halward, and decided that for the moment it was best if he waited.

That so many arrived at the park to see the statue almost alarmed him. Some part of his mind had imagined that he would be able to say goodbye in peace, but around him he saw that many had brought their own mementos, hands filled with portraits, trinkets, necklaces and the like, and he realised rather guiltily that he wasn't the only person to have lost loved ones. Grim faced widows, orphaned children, bereaved parents; they were all there, all clustered in that park that before had been just a place, and now was a metaphorical graveyard.

The Inquisition members came to stand around him. Fareld clutched the bag to his chest, wide-eyed and impatient, as Bryce's hand came to rest on his left shoulder and on the other, Dorian's.

Halward stood before his commission. In old age he looked sagacious, and in manner even more so; and when he swept his eyes across the crowds gathered there, at least five hundred people strong, he deemed that there were enough to begin his address.

"Weeks ago," he began in a firm voice; "when the first battle for Minrathous took place, I almost lost my grandson."

_They know the story,_ he thought with impatience: _Get to the unveiling!_

"In my fear that we might lose him, my wife and I decided we had to commission something to remember him by – a statue, to mark his passing. When he lived and discovered this, he asked me to turn it into something to acknowledge the sacrifices made so we could win the war."

There was a faint murmuring from the crowd. If Fareld were taller, perhaps he would have heard; but his father caught the back-end of a compliment, and so he smiled.

"Today, we unveil that statue."

Halward moved to the side. In his bronzed hand he took an end of the sheet, and with one great tug it swept up into the air and fell beside him. Fareld almost gasped when he caught sight of it.

The statue was indeed bronze, and the design was one he hadn't quite expected. It featured a helmeted archer crouched on one knee, his other bent as his foot laid flat on the ground, and his torso turned so he could aim better aim his arrow. His bow was the same as Fareld's, if a little cruder in design. Beside him there stood his companion – a fox with large, distinctive ears, a face made fierce with a snarl, and its legs were bent a little as though he were warning off an unseen enemy. There were certain touches made to make it look more authentic. The fox's fur was shown by a few well-placed notches in the metal, with great muscles made prominent through careful technique. The archer wore a cloak that was akin to his own, touching the plinth that held a thousand different names he didn't know, and a collection of a few he did.

Amidst general gasps and nods of approval, people began to move forward. Roses were put down at first; with them were wreathes and sanguine berries, and a collection of other things Fareld paid no real heed to. The crowd was an ever-moving river around him. There was a general murmur of conversation, either between the living or the living to the dead, before slowly they dispersed, some with tears in their eyes, others with stout, hard frowns.

It was when the people dwindled to a few dozen that Fareld made his move towards the statue. Impressed though he was with the design, that was not the reason he loved it so. The plinth held two distinctive names at the very summit of the ones around it, for there was a sloping top that went down to the vertical base where most of the memorial was inscribed, and on this top there read:

MARI PULLO EVODIUS, BELOVED MOTHER.

LEGIONNAIRE EVODIUS, BELOVED COMPANION AND LOYAL PET.

That Halward had added the touch of Legionnaire's last name almost brought tears to his eyes. Their names were all in Serif, and as he rummaged in his bag for the relics he'd brought with him, Fareld marvelled at how beautiful they looked.

"Shall we leave him be?" Solas asked from where he stood, gathered with the rest of the team; "This seems oddly…private."

Cole shook his head; "He doesn't like to be alone."

"If he wanted us to leave, he would have told us to," Cullen added; "and there are other people here, too. No, I say we're fine."

"Until he tells us," Blackwall gave a sigh, but no more was said. They continued to watch the boy, some with their hands clasped together in front of them, some with their heads bowed in respect, and the rest with a sort of intrigue as the boy pulled out his first item.

It was the picture of the family he'd retrieved. With a sigh he looked over the faces, the paint having chipped in his care, and saw those happy smiles that would never smile again. Had they been right to burn the place down? He asked himself that occasionally, when the night dragged on without pulling him into sleep, and the memories of bygone horrors plagued his dreams.

"I never knew you in life," he murmured as propped the picture up against a bronzed paw, amongst some flowers; "but I hope you're together, wherever you are. Sleep well, friends."

The next thing he pulled from the bag was the pocket portrait, but that he put in his pocket. With a heavy heart he lifted the bag from his shoulder, placing it down on the plinth. His fingers lingered over it as his thoughts gave way to memories. For a moment, he expected to see a sharp face appear out of the flat material, with wide eyes looking up at him as though to ask what he was doing.

"You were my best friend for a while, Legionnaire. You were with me through my highs and comforted me through my lows. When I was too weak to go on and thought about giving up, you were there to make me see sense, even if you never talked me out of anything. I'll never forget you; you'll always be the first fox I ever had, and I'll always remember that you died in my war. I love you, Legion. I hope we see each other again one day."

Fareld paused for a moment, allowing himself to say another mental goodbye, before he pulled out the portrait again.

Behind him, Dorian thought of interrupting. He saw the sadness in his boy's face – the terrible acceptance that those people were dead and would never return – and felt as though he should intervene with it, make it better. When he unconsciously took a step forward, Bryce held him back with his hand.

"No," he said quietly; "We have to let him do this."

The mage made to protest, but Varric spoke instead:

"This kid's got to say goodbye. It'll only help."

"But-"

"He's playing with adult emotions here, Dorian. It's frightening, it's depressing, but he's got to do it or he'll never come to terms with everything. What he's doing," the dwarf gestured to the boy, too lost in his ritual to notice; "is necessary."

Fareld looked down at the portrait he'd come to adore, and in his heart he felt a violent urge to keep it with him. What would he achieve in leaving it behind? Would he not just lose a precious memory, a keepsake of his mother's that he would never get back? His fingers wrapped around the oval-shaped metal while his eyes were awash with tears.

"Mother…" he said, voice choked; "Mother, I tried so hard. I tried to be a good person, a good son. I tried to be hard-working and observant. I even tried to hate him, because I knew you did. I tried – I tried and I failed and…and I'm so sorry, Mother."

Tears sprung from his eyes as he brought the portrait to his face, locked tightly in his balled up fist.

"I wanted to make you proud, because you gave up so much to have me and raise me. You always told me you loved me, that you wanted me to succeed even if it meant you had to suffer. I loved you. I love you. If I could go back…"

A sob escaped his throat. Behind him he heard his father take a step forwards, but he was stopped by a murmuring from Bull.

"But words mean nothing now. I found the Inquisition, and with them we stopped the Templars from destroying Minrathous. Reports are flooding in from all cities. We're winning. There's a way to go, but no more should die from this. I wish I'd been quick enough to save you, Mother. But I did my best, and I hope I made you proud."

With a trembling hand, he laid the portrait between the wreaths and flowers, the candles and necklaces. His fingers kept locked over it for a moment as he let another choked sob pass.

"I love you, Mummy. I hope we'll be reunited. Until then…" he took a steadying breath and let go of the portrait; "I have to say goodbye."

He stood for a prolonged while at the plinth, as though debating with himself whether or not to leave it, and then turned to the group gathered behind him. With tearstained cheeks he approached his father, who quickly crouched down to wipe them away.

"It's alright, son," he soothed; "It's done now."

"I want to go home."

Bryce lifted him from the floor, and Fareld in his state made no protest. The boy's head fell to his shoulder and his eyes, glassy for the thoughts swirling in his head, stared out at the park, which slowly began to grow less and less crowded as mourners came and went.

Halward, who had again been speaking to the sculptor, hurried up to Dorian when he saw them preparing to leave. The mage made up excuses; tales of Fareld's insomnia and frequent nightmares, smattered with 'lasting after effects' of his injuries.

"Be sure to send for us if things get worse," the noble said; "I'll bring the finest healer I can to his side, from Qarinus if need be."

But as they spoke, Fareld felt a strange mixture of emotion. His soul was heavy, but at the same time, it was free. Some deeper part of himself had reached peace; as if in saying goodbye to his mother, he'd unchained himself of mind-forged manacles, and had come to terms with her loss. It was a state he never thought he'd achieve, and as Bryce and the Inquisition left the park with him in arm, his cheek rested against the Herald's shoulder, he smiled.


	50. On the Road to Somewhere Better

The day of leaving came; and for Fareld there was no day more important, for amongst the sunshine and the birdsong he meant to make his decision, and his decision was to stay.

There were words left unsaid as he watched the men prepare to quit Minrathous. Their jubilations had died and were replaced by a universal longing for home. The clouds had given way to a brilliant light, though one that was void of warmth, and by it they secured weapons to wagons, tarpaulin to carts, and people to horses, provided to them by a thankful Archon.

He stood on the wall's walkways, with the wall itself surrounded now by the three golems. At his sides were Radonis and Nirornor, both as enthralled as he, and when eyes sought his he avoided them, fearful for his resolve.

Dorian worked with a mood of noticeable despondency. Fareld had told him that morning of his plan to stay, and no amount of persuasion, pleading, coaxing or cajoling could change his mind. He recalled his reason with great despair:

"I have work to do here. Tevinter needs me. The people need me. If I went with you to New Haven, where there's already a capable army, what would I be doing but adding excess to a perfect shield?"

Bryce too was upset by his decision to remain behind, and beside his lover he went to and from the different carts, unwilling to voice his misery. Theirs was a pain no other could understand, and so to no other did they speak. Their silence was invaded by the shouts of men eager to return home, and their thoughts, so grim and gloomy, were made even gloomier.

"I want to talk to him," Varric said as he and Bull loaded some weapons onto a cart. They were aided by Solas and Cole, but Cole had since lapsed into an episode of silence and Solas made no effort to speak.

"Fareld's made up his mind," he murmured, shouldering a heavy rack of swords; "There's nothing left to say now."

"This is insane. There's no way he can watch us go after all we've been through."

"Evidently, he can."

Cole looked up from his basket, filled with bolts and arrows and an assortment of broken hinges. His eyes were dull as his gaze raked through the men around them.

"Is there any justice left in Tevinter?" he asked, somewhat to himself, but loud enough for the others to hear; "We're leaving now, but all we have are stories and memories, and nothing of substance. Sword and magic clash, and magic prevails, and we watch as adults are left behind in children's bodies, and children aren't sure if they mean to be left behind. Sanctuaries stand as far off blips on the horizon, but rain falls and there are no more eyes to see it."

There was silence for a while – or at least as much silence as the surrounding men would permit. Their eyes went upwards to the wall where Fareld stood, his bow in his hands, his crest on his shoulder, avoiding to look down at them as though he feared their gaze would burn.

"Will he be happy here?" Bull asked Solas, for the elf was a more sagacious man than he, and though he knew the answer he held some vain hope it would be wrong.

"No," came his sad reply; "He won't be, because he doesn't belong. If he was meant to be an Imperium man, he would be more malleable and less autonomous. He's his father's son – and he and Dorian share more in common than he might think."

Cullen and Josephine were at work with Gnaeus, and the ironworker made polite conversation with them both. There was an invisible storm cloud over their heads as they folded and prepared tarpaulins for transport. The trio were as despondent as the rest, and though they sought to keep their minds distracted, soon Josephine gave in and sighed.

"Will we ever recover from this?" she asked.

"The war? Of course. We're-"

"You know that's not what I mean, Cullen. Dorian and Bryce won't be the same, knowing they have a son here. How is it he can watch us go?"

The ex-Templar sighed; "I have no idea. I thought…I was sure he would agree."

"The boy's proud, and he's true Tevinter," Gnaeus sombrely said; "There's no place on Thedas he'd rather be, I fancy, than under the wing of the Archon."

"But his fathers…" she looked up towards the men, who were still working side by side together, making no attempts to communicate. Their eyes were far off, but the unhappiness in them was too much for her to look to long.

"Not all wounds heal overnight, Miss," the blacksmith murmured; "Time will ease the pain. Some stories don't have a happy ending."

Fareld held his bow in his hands for the sake of comfort, his eyes roaming the undulating crowds below, caught in a frenzy of work. Their faces were eager; few eyes were unenthused as men went back and forth, with swords, shields, helms and armour shed, and the sound of crude shouts heavy in the air.

"I'm sad to see them go," Radonis told them; "The Inquisitor is a fine man. Dorian, too. How I wish they would reconsider and set a base here."

"They go where they have to," said Fareld; "Their army is an army of the people, and people are all over. We stand to fight one side of a war while they might fight thousands. Independence is a game of luck, though. If Bryce were someone else, I doubt they would have come so far."

Nirornor leaned against the wall, where he was now seldom seen since his injury.

"They aren't looking at an easy journey. The way back is long and hard; especially for people who have no idea of the landscape."

Fareld glanced to the side of him; "They have Gnaeus with them. He's Tevinter, born and bred. He'll show them the way."

"And for our special brand of madmen?"

"Even if they came across Venatori out there, they have enough of our mages to keep them safe."

"Well," he turned his head back to the scene; "I suppose that's that, then."

There was another half-hour of preparations below before finally the army clambered onto horses, with footmen still on the ground. Bryce and Dorian secured horses of ebony hides while behind them, their friends had those of mixed white and brown, all of which were fine stallions bred by horse enthusiasts.

Bryce gave them the trio a nod; "I suppose this is goodbye."

"Yes," Radonis replied; "but think of my offer, and never hesitate to visit. We at Minrathous will always welcome you."

"Fareld?"

The boy made no attempt to look up from where his gaze had fallen to the floor. There was a childish determination about him not to raise his head, and as he shuffled from foot to foot Nirornor gave them a helpless shrug.

"Our offer always stands," the Herald said when it was clear Fareld would make no response; "If ever you want to come to New Haven, all you have to do is write to us. We'll send over a cart as soon as we can."

There was a pause, and then a curt nod of Fareld's head.

The horses turned. With them the footmen began to march, but as they moved towards the forests Dorian remained, staring for a little while longer at his son.

"Don't forget to write," he found himself calling as Bryce gently urged him away; "It's nice to hear how you're doing!"

The sadness in his voice was not lost on Fareld. Still the boy refused to raise his head, looking down as if he thought he would be scolded otherwise, and with a hopeless sigh Dorian turned his horse and made slow progress towards the men.

Nirornor looked at Fareld. The man raised an eyebrow and said, spurred by his own affection to him:

"This is what you want? Really?"

"Our people need me," he murmured; "Loyalty-"

The Archon was about to make a comment, but Nirornor did instead. He listened in silence as the pair shared an earnest talk not usually displayed in front of him:

"Loyalty's important, but this place will swallow you whole."

"I have to be here. This is where I belong."

"No, Fareld, this is what you've always known. There's a difference. You know I've always acted in your best interests-"

"Who had to take up whose role?"

"—and this is one of those moments where I say, without a shadow of a doubt, that if you let this opportunity pass you by, you'll end up regretting it."

Nirornor looked up at Radonis, but the Archon made no attempts to curb him. He knew he had the power to. He had the power to end the man's speech and retain one of his finest archers, but some inner force – the force that seldom made itself known – restrained him from doing so.

"This isn't a matter of loyalty. This is a matter of you and the choices you want to make. What do you, Fareld Evodius, want to do?"

There was a long pause. In it Fareld watched the army recede further towards the forests, and as he did so something urgent ignited within him.

He turned to Radonis, who fixed him with a smile. The boy nodded in that respectful way of his; but then he frowned, sighing as he took off his crest and handed it to him.

"Nirornor's right," he said; "I can't stay here, sir. I have to see where this life takes me."

Radonis took the crest, but with raised eyebrows and false surprised eyes; "You understand I'll have to hand your position over to Jassin?"

"Minrathous will prevail," he grinned and leapt over the wall, where he landed on a golem nearer the gates, and proceeded to slide down its sleek edges and complex angles; "I have no doubt about it!"

Fareld tore down the golem with an almost practiced skill, and then roared off after the men. His legs burned and something excitable was awakened within him; some sleeping beast was roused, and now barked at the end of a leash.

He ran closer and closer, speed increasing, until finally he was bursting through men and horses, frightening a few that riders were able to quickly get a hold of. There were those few people that shouted after him – cries of 'Hey!' and 'Watch out!' – but he paid them no heed as he raced towards the front, weaving through the intricate seam that was the army.

"Dorian and Bryce have their work cut out for them," Nirornor huffed in amusement as he watched the boy go; "I hope he'll remember to write."

"I should reprimand you for that. We've lost our archers' leader, all because you told him to 'follow his heart.'"

The man shrugged; "Sir, you can reprimand me, but nothing you do will bring that boy back here. He's his own person now."

There was a pause as Radonis looked down at the crest, made so as to fit the boy's small frame and still look valiant. His fingers moved over the material as a small smile graced his lips.

"Let's say he decided to go himself, then."

Fareld tore through the final line, and with a great leap he threw himself on the back of Dorian's horse. The stallion, caught unawares and frightened, whinnied and reared its front hooves up, and only through quick reflexes did the mage manage to get in under control again. All eyes turned to him; and when they caught sight of Fareld, there seemed a wide murmuring of confusion.

"Fareld?!" he said in amazement; "But, you're-"

"Secure the men, call the horn, march onwards!" the boy laughed; "It's off to New Haven!"

"You're coming with us?" said Bryce in front of them, for the men were all still mobile and needed their leader to guide them forwards; "I thought you were staying behind?"

"There's nothing for me here anymore. I did what I could; now they have to do without me."

"What about that 'loyalty' you were so fond of?" Bull asked.

"The next adventure's out there, and I don't want to miss it!"

The group progressed towards the forest, which soon they were immersed in, and behind them Minrathous was swallowed by a thick swath of trees and bushes.

Fareld nuzzled into his father's back, wrapping his arms around it as the procession continued. Dorian looked up Bryce, who had glanced back from his horse to see them, and the pair shared a soft smile and a brief moment of elation before he had to turn back.

The others murmured to each other in hushed tones. The general mood was one of positivity. They had Fareld; a boy who they were sure would prove his worth, both on the battlefield and off of it.

And together they marched onwards to New Haven, where a land of new possibilities arose, and a new life with a new family awaited Fareld.


	51. Dawning of New Quests

The gentle caress of sunlight was the first thing that woke Dorian.

In the half-light of early morning, in which the sun was too weak to do more than exist, the mage opened his eyes to his New Haven quarters; a sizable room with beautiful wooden furniture, pale blue tapestries on the wall, three bookcases large enough to hold numerous tomes, and a grey fireplace fitted with an iron grate, wherein the night's fire had died to fading embers.

Outside, he could hear the first signs of life. They drifted in from an opened window, and had he the strength Dorian would have stood to close it. Instead, he listened to the faint birdsong floating in the air, the twittering of a new day, and softly a smile came to him as he hovered between reality and the dream-world.

Beside him slept Bryce. The Herald had not officially moved in, but since their return the pair had spent more and more nights together, and common consensus was that their quarters were now shared.

The air was peaceful, the ambiance perfect, and Dorian made a vow to himself that he would never leave his bed. Bleary eyes blinked as he surveyed the room once more – and his heart stopped when they fell on Fareld's face.

He shrieked a shriek too high to have been a man's. Leaping backwards, he collided with Bryce and made the man start, jumping to his feet as though prepared to fight off an enemy.

"Morning!" greeted the far too enthusiastic child; "It's dawn!"

"Fareld…!" the Herald began, but his voice trailed off to a fatigued sigh. All of their muscles relaxed in unison and he wearily sat on his bed, rubbing at his eyes to stimulate the blood flow.

"What are you doing up at this ungodly hour?" Dorian as well rubbed his eyes, though he still laid in bed with the covers draped over him.

"Victor woke me up."

From Fareld's shoulder appeared the sharp face of a snow fox, and the creature's ears twitched as if in confirmation. Inwardly, the mage cursed they had ever found him. Their travels had led through the mountains at one point, and his son, eager now to explore them, had discovered the orphaned pup near the summit; and then had refused to let him be. The fox had become Victor, full name Victory, and ever since he and his owner had become inseparable.

"Of course he did," he murmured; "Well, we're awake now. Go downstairs and have breakfast – we'll be with you in a minute."

The boy's face became almost shy. It was then that Dorian noticed he was holding his bow, and with a silent prayer for strength, he sighed:

"Why do you have your bow, Fareld?"

"The soldiers say they heard something near the 'outside' gate. I want to see what it was."

Bryce shook his head; "Absolutely not. That's too far away from New Haven for my liking."

"It's not that far!" his voice verged on a whine; "Besides, I'm safe! I'm not going to the Imperium – only near the mountainside!"

"Fareld-"

"I won't be more than a few minutes!"

"It's too dangerous for you to go alone. If anything were to happen out there-"

"Nothing will happen! If anything does, I'll call for someone!"

The boy was determined, and though they argued both men knew it would do no good. It was a miracle he had come to them at all; though a miracle Dorian could have waited for until noon, when he would have been more competent to deal with it.

"Fine," he finally assented, and offset the boy's gleeful smile with; "but the moment you feel unsafe or something happens, you run as fast as you can. Understand?"

Fareld nodded, and within the next moment both he and Victor were gone. Dorian fell back on to his pillows, mourning the loss of their serene dawn.

"There goes that darling boy of ours."

Fareld went through the Fortress, and on his way he called out to soldiers, archers, mages and the like, all of them his friends and comrades. Their smiles were affable; many stories had circulated about him and though not all were good, his reputation seemed unaffected by it all.

The air outside was cold, even as winter ended and gave way to a cautious spring. The snow on the ground had melted somewhat to reveal the first green sprigs of grass, and the gates were home to the most wary of daffodil buds, waiting for warmer weather. The three tiers were becoming active as people left their homes to slowly attend their stations. He watched them all – labourers, workmen, blacksmiths, wood-choppers and merchants, with none of them more important than the last.

At the gates, he encountered little resistance, aside from the general scepticism that Dorian would let him out unsupervised. The gatekeeper – a large man with large hands, though on curiously chicken-like legs – went through some rules he was to follow, applicable only to him, and with a frustrated agreement he was released.

Beyond, the world was a continuous plane of snow and ice, with mountains in the distance that scraped the sky, itself amber-orange and serene. The clouds were pink and fluffy and the sun, not yet high enough to give much warmth, peeked out from behind them as though shy.

"Fareld?" he span when he heard his name, only to see Gnaeus at the ironworker's stall. The man was starting the furnaces that would shape the day's metal, and he seemed in a genial mood; a far cry from the people he'd so far seen.

"I heard a noise," he answered the unsaid question; "I'll be back in ten minutes. If I call out, send someone."

Gnaeus nodded. With his agreement and subsequent warning, Fareld moved to the long, fenced path which led to the mountains. He murmured encouragement to Victor, who was still perched on his shoulder.

The bow in his hands felt light and ready. With cautious steps he went forward, until he had reached the end of the cobbled road and was then forced to peek out of the gate. Behind him, he could hear no soldiers; their shifts were changing, and if he were to run into trouble, he would have to face it alone.

Then, a shape caught his eye. The world beyond the gates was a place of tangled bushes and broken paths, and at every turn there was more snow, more ice. The roads were treacherous for bandits and thieves; no sane man would walk them alone, much less if that man were a wanted one, for through them there was still no respite from the law.

The shape took form. He watched as out of the clustered shadows there stepped a person – and readying his bow, he called out for someone to come to him.

"Who are you?" he barked. There was no answer. Instead, the featureless person looked at him, swathed in shadow, and made no attempt to flee as slowly he advanced.

The silence was unnerving. He could hear the approaching footsteps of hurried guards, and with renewed courage he said:

"My name is Fareld Evodius Pavus-Trevelyan. Who are you?!"


End file.
